Mistress Potter (HIATUS)
by kyella14
Summary: Weak, bitter and reclusive, Jess Wright is nobody. But when she emerges from her isolation to work at Stark Industries, she is cold and ruthless, nothing like the Jess Wright of years past. The reason is simple: another wears her face and claims her life. Jessamine Potter, Mistress of Death, arrives at the dawn of a new world of superheroes and gods. Fem, Amoral, OP, MoD Harry.
1. 1: The Mistress

**[A/N]: I know. I should be studying or writing the next chapter for my already ongoing fanfiction. But, instead, here I am, with a vicious desire to write an Avengers crossover with Harry Potter, where MoD!fem!Harry is a ruthless and maybe a bit too OP.**

 **Anyway, enjoy! Let me know what you guys think.**

 **EDIT: Forgot to put in a standard disclaimer. Dearie me, I'm getting old and I haven't even graduated yet.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter or Marvel.**

 **WARNINGS: Foul language and potential mentions of fem slash in the future. The far, distant future.**

* * *

A woman walked down the street, her pace brisk and her eyes alert. She wore a bright pink jacket over a well-fitted men's suit. A tie patterned with bumblebees stood out from underneath. Her sandals slapped loudly against the wet pavement.

Luckily for her, the street was deserted. There was no one nearby to wonder at her odd choice of attire, and the darkness of the night helped hide the worst of it. Her right fist stiffened at her side as she turned around a corner, ready to defend herself if there were any unpleasant surprises lurking. She relaxed when the street was clear. Then she saw a building before her, a single black door tucked discreetly to the side—though whether the colour was from the grime that doubtlessly lay thick over it, or whether it was painted, she did not know. She drew closer, eyes lighting up when they took in the small, painted symbol on the door handle.

A triangle, with a line splitting it down the middle and a circle set within. The Deathly Hallows.

The woman touched her finger to the symbol and felt the expected prick as a paper-thin cut appeared on the flesh, allowing a drop of red, thick blood to ooze out. The symbol pulsed, a faded green glow emanating from it. The door swung open.

She blinked at the sight that awaited her but was not otherwise surprised. Contrary to the building's external appearance, its interior had been stripped clean, repainted and furnished with luxurious, if eccentric, taste. The wall opposite the entrance displayed all manner of strange objects. There was a collection of books on the top shelf, and as the woman walked down the hallway, she saw that one of them proclaimed, in Ancient Greek, _The Black Arts: Necromancy._ She started, recognising the tome as an ancient one, thought to have been lost since the Bonfire of the Vanities in 1497.

The lower shelves were dedicated to a mix of objects and relics. Some looked as though they were about to fall apart, while others were simply cracked clay pots. But the woman did not think for one moment that they were worthless—if Jessamine had placed them here, then their value was priceless.

Jessamine. The woman blinked and scowled at herself. She had allowed herself to be distracted, and now she was late.

She hurried on. The narrow hallway opened up to reveal a spacious living room. A chandelier hung from the ceiling over deep green couches. And there, seated on the cushions, a book in her lap, was the Mistress.

"Pansy," said the Mistress before she could even open her mouth. "Welcome."

"Jessamine," said Pansy, offering a low bow.

Jessamine stood, pulling Pansy in for a hug. "You look positively dreadful."

"I thought I blended in."

The response, much to Pansy's displeasure, elicited a laugh. "Perhaps if you did not wear that awful jacket. Anyway, come sit with me. You have what I asked for?"

"Of course," she replied with a sniff. She reached into her purse and pulled out a stack of files far too large to have fitted in there, laying them on the coffee table. "Here."

Jessamine opened the top folder. A vaguely pretty woman stared out at her. The woman in the photo glared at Jessamine, her chin raised in defiance but did not otherwise move. "Very good," she murmured. "She will disappear by the end of the month?"

Pansy nodded in confirmation. "I'll have ten thousand Galleons in her mother's Gringotts account in a week. Two days after she receives the money, she has an appointment with a discreet Healer. By the end of her session, she will remember nothing of her life as Jess Wright, and will only know her life as Sally Matheson."

"Obliviate the Healer too, won't you?" said Jessamine, turning a page. She scanned the information listed. Jess Wright was a witch born in Bath, England, to a witch mother and a non-magical father. She had been home-schooled, instead of sent to Hogwarts. She had been fourteen when her father had died of cancer. Soon after, as the war began in earnest, Jess and her mother had moved to North Carolina, US. She was currently twenty-five-years-old and had learnt two months ago that her mother had contracted a lethal magical disease. Unfortunately, they were poor, and could not afford the expensive treatment.

"And the mother?" asked Pansy.

"Five hundred Galleons a year should suffice in keeping her silence. Have someone keep an eye on her though—if it seems like she's trying to expose us, remind her that _she_ was the one who sold us her daughter," replied Jessamine. "If that doesn't work, kill her."

Pansy made a small note of her instructions in her journal. "No Obliviation?"

"I can play the part of the distraught daughter if need be, but it would raise awkward questions if Jess's mother suddenly has no recollection of her," explained Jessamine. She set aside Jess Wright's folder, moving onto the next in the pile.

"That's from Finch-Fletchley," said Pansy. "Once the documents in there are signed, it will be done and dusted. He will be the new SEAO of The Potter Company after you vanish."

"CEO," corrected Jessamine as she Conjured herself a quill. Pansy scowled—she'd been trying to get a hang of muggle culture for years, but some aspects of it clearly evaded her still. "Done."

Pansy collected the folder. "The next one is the lease for your new home in Los Angeles under Jess Wright's name. I've arranged for a distant aunt to die and leave a generous inheritance to Jess, allowing her to finally rent a place away from home and her mother's overbearing nature. The house is owned by one of Theo's cousins, and he is, of course, giving you free rent."

"Kind of him," remarked Jessamine.

"Theo spoke to him."

"Ah."

"The last folder is in regards to Jess's employment. I've taken the liberty of applying to a few jobs for her, and the résumé Boot put together has earned her interviews with several companies in the coming weeks for various administrative and management roles."

Jessamine opened the final folder, skimming through the company names. Some were prominent companies she recognised, but one name, in particular, stood out to her. Stark Industries. The role required someone in a low-level administrative position with opportunity to rise to a mid-level management position within three years. She wondered what exactly being a low-level administrator in the most advanced weapons manufacturing company in the world entailed.

"The first interview is in five days," she noticed.

Pansy nodded. "Everything is already ready for you in Los Angeles. I've arranged for some furniture to be moved into the new house, but I imagine you'll bring much more with you when you go down there."

"Definitely," agreed Jessamine. "I would like to see Jess in person before then. I want to study her appearance as best as I can before I go out in public as her."

"Of course."

"That's all the information you've brought me?"

"Yes."

Jessamine smiled, leaning back into her couch. "Good. Let's catch up then, shall we? We won't see each other nearly as often after I move to America."

Pansy rolled her eyes. "I'll still be seeing you every weekend. And I imagine I'll end up moving to America with you in a few years. Merlin knows you won't survive without me," she added under her breath.

Jessamine smiled, affection warming her eyes. They had been friends for years before they'd started working together. It had only pulled them closer together, and Jessamine was unashamed to call Pansy her best friend. She was sure it worked the other way around too. "If you say so, darling."

* * *

Though a prisoner, Jess Wright had been made quite comfortable since she'd been trapped down in the dungeons. There was a comfortable bed for her to the side with warm blankets. A table where she could eat at, with hot, good food delivered to her at noon and 7 PM on the dot, every day. To the other side of the wall, there was the bathroom, where everything she needed had been supplied. There was even a change of clothes laid on her bed daily.

Yet she had chosen to sleep on the floor, wearing the same robes she'd worn since she'd been captured. She smelled like Nundu's breath and was caked in dirt. Her bed was undisturbed; she had never slept in it. Jessamine supposed it was a relief that Jess had at least eaten her meals and used the toilet instead of relieving herself in a corner.

Jess had pressed against the back wall when she'd heard the dungeon door opening and the footsteps drawing closer. She glared at them all, with particular loathing at Pansy, who had been the one to put her in here. Jessamine stepped closer to the cell. She flicked her hand, and fire bloomed into existence in the torches that hung on the walls, lighting up Jess's hunched form.

"You eat the food we give you, but you don't shower in the bathroom we gave you," said Jessamine. "You must know we aren't going to kill you by now, so why do you insist on making yourself uncomfortable?"

"Let me out," spat Jess. She glared at her captors, but her fury was met with cool impassiveness.

"Don't be silly," chided Jessamine. Then she frowned. "I can't see you under all that filth." She clicked her fingers, the sound echoing.

In moments, Jess had been scrubbed clean by a strong Scourgify. Her skin was reddening from the roughness of it, but at least her freckles were visible now. With another snap of Jessamine's fingers, even Jess's blonde hair had been washed, straightened and dried.

"Lovely," said Jessamine, pleased with her own work.

" _You fucking bitch_!" roared the prisoner, her face purpling with rage. She launched herself forwards, slamming against the bars of her cell. " _Let me out! Help! Let me out!_ "

Pansy, who had been watching from the back, put herself in front of Jessamine with a snarl. Her wand snapped out, and chains appeared from within the cell, wrapping around Jess and pulling her backwards. Pansy jabbed her wand viciously, Silencing Jess. The woman's mouth opened and closed, still screaming profanities but no one could hear her now. "Mind your tongue, filth," growled Pansy. "The Mistress has been kind enough to provide you with every comfort you need, and still you spit on her favour."

"Hush, Pansy," said Jessamine, and her employee subsided. "Remove her chains. I can't see her figure when she's all tied up in that metal." Pansy obeyed, and Jessamine waved her hand before Jess could throw herself against the bars again, freezing the prisoner in place. "Strip."

Jess's eyes widened with horror when her hands proceeded to do exactly that. She could not move a single finger, could not even fight her movements. Her limbs obeyed Jessamine's order with a fluid ease, as though not every thought in her brain was rebelling against it. When she was down to her bra and knickers, Jessamine had her turn slowly in the spot, committing every feature of Jess's body to memory.

"Speak now. How did you get that scar on your hip?" asked Jessamine.

The answer rose readily to Jess's lips. "I was six. Dad built a tree-house for me. I climbed up, but a squirrel surprised me and I fell. One of the branches cut my hip."

"Dull," commented Jessamine, but had Pansy note it down anyway. "That is all. Thank you for your cooperation, Jess." The spell released its hold on her and she crumpled to the floor, eyes burning with tears of humiliation.

Jessamine pulled out her wand. It was a gnarled thing, nothing like the refined smoothness of Pansy's. But power burned within its core like no other, though Jessamine was the only one in the world who could sense such things. She twisted the tip of her wand carefully. Her features shimmered and distorted. It looked as though they were melting away, and in its place, Jess Wright came into existence, looking exactly like the Jess Wright who watched in disgust from her cell.

"How do I look?" asked Jessamine, mock-preening under Pansy's assessing look.

"Perfect," declared Pansy.

Jessamine glanced at Jess. "It was a pleasure. I hope you enjoy your new identity."

"My mum will know," said Jess, desperation tingeing her tone.

Jessamine walked away, ignoring her, but Pansy paused, vindictiveness bright in her eyes. She had not forgiven the insult to Jessamine, and the Slytherin in her demanded the insult be repaid. "Darling, your mum was the one who _sold_ you to us." She gave an unpleasant, high-pitched laugh and turned, following after Jessamine.

Behind her, Jess stared with a slack jaw. It was hours later when she started to weep.


	2. 2: A Bad Offer

**[A/N]: In case any of you were wondering, I haven't really chosen a pairing yet. I literally just wrote all this up last night in a fit of manic focus.**

* * *

As Jessamine looked at her new home, she reflected for a moment that Pansy had outdone herself. The Los Angeles house was located in an affluent suburb close to the city. It was three stories high, and had, if the information she had was correct, six ensuite bedrooms. There was a top-of-the-line kitchen on the bottom floor and kitchenettes on the first and second floor. The backyard held an infinity pool and a large jacuzzi.

It was, in other words, what a rich pureblood would term 'acceptable', and what Jessamine thought would compromise her disguise. But she decided to roll with the punches—she was leasing the place, after all, not purchasing it. She could wrangle it as a poor girl's desire to live a decadent life after a sudden windfall.

Theo's distant cousin waited for her in the living room, which was still empty. He gave her a cool smile. "Is everything to your liking, Miss Wright?"

"Perfect," confirmed Jessamine. "I can move in today?"

"Yes," replied the man with a sneer. He'd done this because his cousin had blackmailed him, certainly not out of the goodness of his heart. He did not see any value in the slip of the girl that had rented the place. A background check had told him all he needed to know about Jess Wright—a half-blood who'd been homeschooled. He doubted she even knew which end of the wand to use. "Here are your keys."

"Good," said Jessamine shortly, not missing the condescension that coloured his every word. "Leave."

The man sputtered. "I beg your—"

She rolled her eyes. "Leave before you make a bigger fool of yourself."

"I own this place, girl," he snarled. "This is my property, and I could evict you if—"

"Evict me and you can rest assured that Theo will show your wife those pretty pictures of you and your mistresses between the sheets," said Jessamine, her tone icy. Her new eyes, a light hazel, were not as intimidating as the vivid green they'd been. But their natural warmth was still drained away, and they seemed almost cut from stone when they glared at the man. "That would be a problem, wouldn't it? This house is _hers_ , after all. Not yours. Your money is hers, your properties are hers."

The man drew himself up, furious—but the effect was ruined by the way he swallowed when his eyes met hers.

"Leave."

This time, he obeyed.

Jessamine sighed once he'd left. People were entirely too exhausting to deal with. She shrugged off her bag, placing it on the ground with the zipper open. Waving her wand, dozens of furniture flew from the opening, expanding in size as they moved through the air. Her favourite green couches settled easily on the white rug that stretched over the living room. She went through each room, arranging the furniture to her liking, but left all the bedrooms except for the master bedroom empty.

Conveniently, most of the bedrooms were isolated on the second and third floor. It made setting up wards much easier. But that, she decided, was for later.

Jessamine idly examined one of the bedrooms. There was another bedroom on the opposite side of the wall. She tapped her wand on said wall, and it crumbled away. The debris and dust vanished with a wave of her wand. Destroying the dividing wall had left the room wide and spacious. She set up her bookshelves on every surface, even fixing one on the ceiling when she ran out of space. A Strengthening Charm ensured the plaster wouldn't collapse in on itself.

Then came her books, all of them magical. Hundreds of them drifted to their places, arranging themselves of their own accord. Jessamine smiled, satisfied, and left the room to set up other things while her books were being organised.

The third floor she saved just for her relics and artifacts. She took out a second bag, this one held much more gingerly than the first. Inside held ancient objects beyond price, some of which she had painstakingly coaxed from forgotten tombs during her travels. The first artifact she withdrew from her bag was one such object. She'd personally excavated this from a buried Mayan city. It was a doll-shaped object, soaked in red stain, where the blood of a hundred souls had been sacrificed to create it. It served as a prison for powerful beings—gods, even, if she had read the scripture engraved along its sides correctly.

Each and every one of them was layered with curses and spells. Some of them her own, some of them ancient magics even she could not recognise.

When everything was done, Jessamine went to the backyard. She eyed the pool curiously, toying with her idea of water-based wards. The element of water, instead of earth that was usually used, possibly allowed for much more fluid wards. Harder to penetrate, harder to understand. It was worth a shot, she supposed. The worst that could happen was causing a chain explosion throughout Los Angeles, likely killing hundreds of muggles in the process.

She Summoned her favourite brush, a thin, wispy thing that allowed her to paint the finest of runes. Vanishing the water with a wave of her hand, she leapt down to the bottom of the pool.

Jessamine spared a brief feeling of pity for her hand. It would take days to finish warding, even if she worked through the nights. Doubtless, her hand would be sore for months after she finished etching her runes.

* * *

Dalton Boyd was a good employee. He'd worked his way up the stepladders of Stark Industries diligently. And maybe he bent a company rule here and there, but who didn't? What mattered was that he was efficient in his work, and had an approachable manner that saw him rise to the position of Hiring Manager.

Everyone had those days when they doubted whether what they were doing was really what they wanted to be doing. For Dalton, he had moments like that, but through it all, he knew that he liked working at Stark Industries and that he liked what he did.

Still, sometimes it just wasn't _worth it_.

The biggest problem with Dalton's job was the boss himself. Well, not Dalton's boss. More like Dalton's boss's boss's boss's boss's boss. The great Tony Stark.

Don't get him wrong, Dalton was sure that Mr Stark was really a genius. Maybe he was even a nice guy underneath it all. But Mr Stark also had a tendency of making his job very tedious.

It was not the first time that an employee had quit because of Mr Stark. It wasn't even the first time that an employee had quit in tears, proclaiming that 'she and Tony' were meant to be, 'if not for that whore!'

Yet with the latest one, Dalton had not seen it coming. When he'd hired her, she seemed like a no-nonsense kind of person. A bit uptight, even. She'd been very professional through everything and had rebuffed Mr Stark at every turn. But a year later, she'd come into his office, tears streaming down her face and handed in her resignation. When he'd asked what was wrong, she'd devolved into a betrayal-infused rant about how she thought Mr Stark _loved_ her, and how she had thought she was it for him.

Clearly not.

Dalton wasn't sure if Mr Stark was just _that good_ at seducing women, even those that hated his guts, or whether it was himself that had a terrible judgement in women. The latter held more water than he liked to admit, given his ex-wife had called him an 'insensitive idiot' more than once.

Now Dalton was not an idiot, no matter what his ex said. He'd _tried_ to hire men instead, and the one time he did, he received explicit instructions from a sour-faced Pepper Potts that Mr Stark requests he fire the man and hire a woman—a pretty woman. He'd considered trying to hire a lesbian, but asking for a woman's sexual orientation in a job interview was a sure-fire way to a lawsuit.

So Dalton had set to his reluctant task and had done his best to find an attached woman or a woman with a spine of steel. Unfortunately, Mr Stark seemed just as adept at swaying attached women as unattached women. And women with spines of steel were apparently uninterested in a low-level administrative job where they would be sexually harassed every day. The few he'd managed to find had quit after a month or so, finding jobs elsewhere. _How strange_ , thought Dalton sarcastically.

Thus he was left with the unwelcome job of finding a replacement for Rebecca. He'd already gone through ten candidates, and as morbid as it was, he'd developed a game in his own head, where he'd guess how long each woman would last before they ended up in Mr Stark's bed. In some cases, he was certain they'd only last an hour—really, the amount of 'will I see Mr Stark often' and 'I think _Tony_ would appreciate my skills' was embarrassing.

His next candidate did not look promising either. She'd been homeschooled, but her SAT results weren't half-bad, and she had a degree in Business from a local university. But Dalton looked at her warm brown eyes and the pleasant, almost shy smile that curled on her lips, and idly thought that she was unlikely to do. Still, a courtesy interview had to be given.

Dalton's phone beeped. "Mr Boyd, your next candidate is here," said his receptionist.

"Thank you, Paul. I'll see her now," he replied.

The door swung open in moments. Dalton glanced at Paul, who gave a nod. He raised an eyebrow—that was unexpected. He straightened himself, settling into a professional demeanour. If Paul thought this new candidate was promising, perhaps it wasn't hopeless after all.

Then Jess Wright walked in, and Dalton had to glance back at the photo to make sure he was looking at the same person.

She certainly didn't look physically different. She had freckles in the exact same places, and her features were undoubtedly the same as the woman in the photo. Yet she seemed to carry herself in an entirely different manner. Where in the photo, Jess Wright was shy, the woman standing before him held her chin high and assessed him with sharp eyes. Where in the photo she looked nervous, she was calm, almost too calm now.

Dalton noted her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail and made an approving note on his papers. "Miss Wright," he said with a smile, standing to shake her hand. She smiled back, though it did not reach her eyes. He had thought her eyes warm when he'd seen them in the photo, but looking into them now, he shivered. "I'm Dalton Boyd."

"A pleasure," she said, her lips curling around the words in a refined accent.

"You're British?" noted Dalton.

"Dual citizenship," replied Wright. "I moved to the States when I was fourteen, and obtained American citizenship when I turned eighteen."

"You don't sound American at all."

Wright raised an eyebrow. "I can speak like this, if you prefer it," she said, her voice taking on a distinct American drawl. A flawless accent, marvelled Dalton. "I simply prefer my home accent more."

"It's fine," said Dalton, flushing a little. "I was only curious. Anyway, onto business. Can you tell me a bit about any experience you have within the industry?"

"I have worked part-time in several administrative positions before in North Carolina," she said in a clipped, professional tone. "My last job was with a small catering company called Deli Delights. I worked there for two years, and quit when I moved to L.A."

If this was for any other role, Dalton would have been unimpressed with her succinct answer. It suggested she was quite fine if she did not acquire the job, and therefore, was not invested in the position. But this was not, and her answer also implied that she did not seek approval. And perhaps, that was a quality much desired for the role.

"Are you hoping to maintain a long-term position at Stark Industries?" asked Dalton. Not exactly a usual question, but one he needed to know regardless.

"The ad said that there was opportunity to rise to a mid-level management position," said Wright. He took that to mean a 'yes'.

"In the course of your career, you will likely have to interact often with Mr Stark," said Dalton, studying her reaction. There was none.

"I will respond accordingly to any _professional_ inquiries Mr Stark may have."

Dalton's lips twitched into the ghost of a smile. She was sharp. Very sharp. "I'll be frank with you, Miss Wright," he said, leaning forwards. "You seem like a smart woman. I honestly don't care about your qualifications and your work experience—those can be taught. What I care about is not having to find a replacement for you within the next year or so. I've had women with better resumes than you come into my office, and each one has, at the end of their time here, left devastated or furious."

"An attractive job offer," said Wright wryly. "And please, call me Jess."

"The point is, Jess," continued Dalton, "that I need women who won't hesitate to put Mr Stark in their place. I can defend your actions to Mr Stark, if I must, but I can't make a woman _not_ sleep with Mr Stark."

"Rest assured, Mr Boyd," said Jess, and something in the way she smiled made a small, unnoticed part of Dalton want to recoil into himself. "I have no interest in having anything other than a professional relationship with Mr Stark—and I am certainly not afraid to kick him in the balls."

Dalton laughed, pushing aside the nervous feeling in his stomach. "I'll believe it when I see it. But for now... you're hired."


	3. 3: First Impressions

**[A/N]: Ah, if only I could write this much consistently. But alas, I procrastinate way too much for that.**

* * *

Pansy's voice, crisp and clear, came through her earphones. "How did it go?"

"I got the Stark job," said Jessamine as she walked down the busy L.A streets.

"Congratulations."

"Thank you," she replied. "You're getting the hang of mobile phones."

Pansy sniffed. "Of course," she said. "It's quite easy; I cannot fathom why you doubted me in the first place."

"I apologise," said Jessamine with a small grin. "Anyway, how fares things in Britain?"

"They haven't noticed you're gone yet, but that's only to be expected—it's only been a week after all. Though I think Granger suspects something is going on. She owled Finch-Fletchley about his new position the other day."

Jessamine glanced down at her phone, where she had a digital map up. She was supposed to turn left… here. "Hermione always was quick on the uptake," she murmured. "What did Finch-Fletchley say?"

"That he was delighted for the opportunity and could not thank the lovely Miss Potter enough," said Pansy, mimicking the man's refined, almost snobbish manner of speech. Jessamine snickered in spite of herself. "I hate your new voice. You sound like an irritating house-elf."

"We live with what we must," said Jessamine. She rounded another corner and saw the small restaurant Paul, her new boss's secretary, had recommended to her. There was no queue, thanks to it being relatively unknown and the fact that it was nearing three in the afternoon. "Listen, I'm about to head to a diner for lunch; I'll see you on the weekend?"

"Of course, darling," said Pansy. "Shall I bring Theo with me? He's most insistent on ensuring his cousin has given you the very best of accommodations."

"That's fine. I haven't seen him in a while, anyway; I look forward to catching up with him," said Jessamine as she pushed the door open. A bored-looking teenage boy waved in greeting. She held up a lone finger, and he pointed at a small table in the corner, handing her a menu.

"Perfect. I'll leave you to it then."

"Bye, Pans."

Jessamine slid into her seat, tapping the 'End Call' button on her new iPhone. Glancing idly around, she took in the warm and relaxed atmosphere. Other than two waiters—the boy who had greeted her and another redheaded girl who was placing a plate of hot food in front of another customer with cheer—there was an older man who Jessamine glimpsed in the kitchen. The diner itself was a bit old-fashioned, with red, faux-leather seats and aged, tiled walls. But it had a certain charm to it that she could not help but like. The menu was pretty simple too, and most were fast foods, which pleased Jessamine; she was starving after putting off lunch to do a bit more in her warding project and rushing off to her interview.

A bubbly waitress popped up next to Jessamine, a cheerful smile on her lips. "Hi! What can I get you today?" asked Cheryl, if Jessamine read her name tag correctly. It was a bit hard, what with how the girl seemed to bounce on her heels.

"The cheeseburger with a side of chips, please," said Jessamine.

"Oh wow, you have an accent," said Cheryl, her eyes lighting in excitement. "You sound so posh."

Jessamine blinked. "Thank you."

"Are you from England?" The waitress's eyes grew larger, and her voice dropped to a whisper. "Are you related to _the Queen_?"

"... I am from England, but I don't have any relation to the Queen." Jessamine paused. "At least I don't think I do."

Cheryl seemed to take that as a solid yes, gasping in awe. Her red hair even seemed to frizz up in her excitement. "That is _so_ cool."

"Could I get a glass of water please?" asked Jessamine pointedly.

"Of course," breathed Cheryl. She proceeded to shuffle to the side, picking up a jug of water and pouring it into an empty glass—all without once taking her eyes off Jessamine. It would be impressive if it wasn't so unnerving. She was used to manic devotion for her various statuses as the Girl-Who-Lived, the Woman-Who-Won and the Mistress of Death, but such reverence for her something as simple as her nationality was new and discomfiting. "So you're like _royalty_."

"Not really," said Jessamine with as much patience as she could. "Listen—Cheryl—could you bring me my food? I'm actually really hungry."

"Oh my God," said the waitress. She backed away slowly, mouthing 'oh my God' over and over. "You know my _name_."

"Okay, you know what?" Jessamine stood. "I think I'll have my lunch elsewhere. Thank you."

A pleasant voice interrupted her escape. "Is there a problem here?" It was the older man from the kitchen, with a curious expression on his face. His face was etched with wrinkles and deep laugh lines.

"No problem at all," said Jessamine with a forced smile. "I was only leaving."

The man's eyes sharpened when he heard her accent, and he turned to look at Cheryl accusingly. "Have you been badgering the poor woman about her accent?"

Cheryl flushed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. "I wasn't _badgering_ her..."

"Of course not," he said, scepticism weighing his words down. He turned to Jessamine, looking apologetic. "I'm so sorry about her. She's a bit strange, but she's a good kid. Tell you what, I'll give you a meal on the house today. What would you like?"

"Oh no," she said, though her protest was more out of courtesy than anything. She was so hungry she was inclined to start chewing on her hair. "I couldn't..."

"I insist. Please."

Jessamine relented as her stomach gave a loud growl. "A cheeseburger with a side of chips then."

The man looked amused, evidently having heard her stomach's very persuasive argument. "I'll make it quick," he said with a wink. Then he settled into a stern expression again when he looked at Cheryl. "You're coming with me. Really, how many times have I told you to stop harassing people about their British accents? You're truly a menace; why I hired you..."

A small smile played on Jessamine's lips as she watched the older man lecture Cheryl, though her amusement was somewhat dampened when she saw the girl looking forlornly at her from a distance. Despite the free meal she'd gotten out of it, she doubted she'd return if it meant having to put up with the fanatical obsession Cheryl seemed to have for British accents.

But when the man came out ten minutes later and the scent of heavenly food hit her nostrils, Jessamine felt the first shade of uncertainty colour her decision. "Here you go," said the man. "My name's Gary, by the way."

"Jess," she returned, her eyes affixed on the burger in front of her. The slab of meat in there looked fat and juicy, and melted cheese dripped over its edges.

Gary chuckled. "Please. Eat. I'll leave you to it."

As she bit into the burger and tasted the explosion of flavour on her tongue, Jessamine reassessed her earlier thoughts. She was quite certain she would suffer through a hundred Cheryls for this. It was only years of being drilled by Pansy in pureblood etiquette that kept her from devouring the burger whole. As it was, she managed to restrain herself to reasonably sized bites and finished her meal in twenty minutes rather than an indecent five minutes.

Gary walked up to her table just as she was wiping her mouth. "I hope you enjoyed your meal?"

Jessamine smiled up at the older man. "That was the best burger I've ever had," she told him honestly.

"That's quite the compliment," he said as he collected her plate. He leaned closer, a conspiratorial look in his eye. "Cheryl doesn't have a shift on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Saturdays. If you're interested in coming back again."

She grinned. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Gary. Truly, it was a lovely meal."

"Not a problem at all. Again, I'm so sorry about Cheryl's behaviour." Gary shook his head. "I've been trying to get her to stop, but she won't listen."

"It's fine," said Jessamine, contentment swirling from her now satisfied stomach. "I'll just have to drop by on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Saturdays."

Gary's eyes crinkled, and Jessamine noticed they were a blue not unlike her old Headmaster's. But they lacked the piercing quality Dumbledore's had held; Gary's only had warmth and friendliness in them. "Always good to have another customer."

Jessamine chuckled. "It was a pleasure, Gary."

He smiled, giving her a friendly wave as she left the diner.

* * *

Jessamine's first impression of Tony Stark could be summarised in one word: hurricane.

He was handsome, she supposed, with an air of flippancy and boyish playfulness about him. The suit he wore was clearly tailored for him, and the cut fit him like a glove. Perhaps the most impressive thing she could say about Stark was that he had _presence_. It was one thing to be good-looking and rich, but the presence that Stark had was what made his allure so powerful, and what had drawn so many women into his bed.

She saw him entering the building from the front desk where she was just getting her new ID card. The crowd seemed to part like the Red Sea before him, noticing him before they even saw him. He breezed through them, talking at rapid speed to a slim redhead behind him, who Jessamine could only assume was the famous Pepper Potts.

Stark batted off a reporter, and Jessamine was struck with the observation that the man drew attention effortlessly. The presence he exuded was one that wrapped around him, immovable. He vanished behind the lift door within moments, and even then, it took a few minutes for everyone to settle back into whatever they were doing before that.

The receptionist giggled from behind her desk. Jessamine glanced at the woman. "Tony leaves a strong impression, doesn't he?" she said.

Jessamine noted the deliberate use of Stark's first name and the way the receptionist's lip curled when she looked at Jessamine. "He does," she replied coolly. "Could I have my ID card now?"

"Sure," said the receptionist, sliding the brand new card across the marble counter. "Don't lose it."

Jessamine didn't deign to reply, snatching up the plastic card and walking away, ignoring the woman's irritated huff. Stark Industries was a veritable maze, and Jessamine took several wrong turns and had to consult a floor map before she managed to find her way to Stark's office. There were layers of underground floors dedicated purely for research and actual work—most of them, Jessamine didn't even have access to. The two floors that were above the ground surface were the only ones she could roam freely in. They were like display houses—sleek and spacious, all spotless white walls and floors so polished she could see her reflection in them. Stark's personal office apparently took up nearly half of the second floor.

Finally, Jessamine made it through the twisting corridors to her new workplace. She reached for the door but frowned when she found it was locked. Then a voice spoke, "Please scan your ID card."

Jessamine stiffened in surprise. It was a robotic voice, toneless and speaking in a halting rhythm. She hesitated but did what the voice requested.

"Jess Wright," declared the voice. "Security clearance: Level Two." The doors swung open and Jessamine was in her new office.

She observed her surroundings with appreciation. It was quite lovely—her circular desk sat right in the centre of the entryway, an expensive marble piece. Stepping inside, she saw that everything was thankfully organised, and the temp had left a note labelling the stacks of paperwork. Logging into her computer, there was already an email waiting for her.

The sender was Dalton, informing her everything she needed to know about what she had to do. There were step-by-step instructions, links and an open invitation to his office if she had any questions. Jessamine marvelled at how his desperation to keep her as comfortable as she could be in her new role was almost palpable.

Deciding to get straight to it, she settled in, unpacking the few things she had brought with her.

The role certainly sounded prestigious, working in Stark's personal office, but Dalton had explained it to her that Stark didn't really spend time in his office, preferring to remain in his labs when he wasn't partying and drinking. She got the impression that she'd never see Stark unless he came in, specifically, to flirt. Most of the important and sensitive work was handled by Miss Potts and Stark's AI, Jarvis, so Jessamine was really only assigned to do boring, routine, unimportant office work, and maybe, occasionally, she'd get the bring Stark his coffee.

It wasn't long after she'd settled in—only a few hours—that Jessamine met Pepper Potts for the first time.

"Hello," said Potts. Up close, she was prettier than in the pictures and had a warm, friendly air. She wore a crisp business suit much like Jessamine's own, though she wore a skirt instead of pants.

Jessamine plastered on a smile. "You must be Miss Potts," she said. "My name is Jess Wright. This is my first day here."

"Oh, I see," said Potts. "It's nice to meet you, Jess. I don't mean to be a bother; I'm sure you must be so busy with it being your first day here, but I'm looking for a file."

"It's no trouble," said Jessamine. "Which file were you after?"

She consulted her notepad and cringed. "The Assassination Document."

Jessamine blinked. "Of course. Give me a moment, please," she said, a trace of disbelief in her voice.

"It's just... how Tony is," said Potts with a roll of her eyes. "He likes to call boring documents silly names to make them more interesting."

"How Mr Stark titles his documents is his own prerogative," said Jessamine blandly. "I believe this is the file."

"Yes, that would be it," said Potts. "Thank you, Miss Wright. I'll just—"

From behind Potts, the lift dinged. Potts shut her eyes, seeming to pray for patience, just as the doors slid open to reveal an impatient-looking Tony Stark.

"I couldn't wait," he told Potts, almost bouncing into the room. "You were taking ages; how long does it take to find a file? You could just get Jarvis to—"

Potts cut him off, looking frustrated, fond and weary all at once. "I've been here for less than five minutes, Tony, and Jarvis is your personal AI. I'm not getting Jarvis to retrieve your company files just because he can."

But Stark was already on a different train of thought, his eyes fixed on Jessamine. "You're new," he observed.

Jessamine gave him a plastic smile. "My name is Jess Wright," she said. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr Stark."

"A pleasure," said Stark, whirling around to look at Potts. "Did you hear that, Pepper? It's a _pleasure_ to meet me—oh no, she's looking like _that_." He turned back to Jessamine, his eyes flicking up and down her form. "Don't ever go near her when Pepper looks like that—you see the way she's baring her teeth? Yeah, she bites." He paused. "You're pretty." He turned back to Pepper again. "We should give that guy down in HR a raise; where does he _find_ these women?"

"He puts out a job ad," Pepper told him helpfully.

"Is that true? He puts out a job ad?"

Jessamine's smile strained. "Yes, Mr Stark."

"Huh," said the billionaire, looking the perfect picture of befuddlement, if not for the amused glint in his eye. "Who'd've thought? Say, what would you say to dinner? With me?"

"No, thank you, Mr Stark."

"Ouch," said Stark. "Cold."

"Tony, you have a meeting in five minutes," interjected Potts.

"You ruin my fun, Pepper. Doesn't she ruin my fun?" he asked, bowling on before Jessamine could answer—not that she had intended to. He glanced down at her, lowering his voice to a more seductive cadence. "I'm going to Afghanistan in a week—let's have dinner before then."

Jessamine's reply was robotic. "No, thank you, Mr Stark."

Stark blinked. "You're a tough one," he said. "I like that. HR guy always finds me the best challenges."

Idly, Jessamine wondered if American wizarding laws outlawed muggle baiting. She'd always found the practice distasteful, but she was tempted to make an exception now.

Potts hurried forwards, apparently noticing some danger signs because she quickly pulled Stark away. "Come on, Tony, we're late for the meeting."

"You'll say 'yes' in a week," called out Stark as he was dragged away.

"No, thank you, Mr Stark."


	4. 4: Tea and No Sympathy

**[A/N]:**

 **CHAPTER WARNINGS: Foul language.**

 **A reviewer has also pointed out to me that prior to the first Avengers movie, Stark Industries headquarters was _not_ in New York. So apologies for that mix-up there. I've already gone back and re-edited the previous chapters to fix that mistake, and hopefully returning readers won't be _too_ confused by this. **

**I fully admit to being much more familiar with HPverse than the Marvel world, so future mistakes may occur. I'll do my best to limit them, but if you guys spot anything, please don't hesitate to tell me so I can fix it up and grovel for forgiveness once more.**

 **Without further ado, a chapter dedicated to tea, my one true love.**

* * *

A void.

Jessamine was falling, sinking. There was nothing around her except for inky blackness. The shadows were thick, curling tendrils of coldness. They pressed against her skin, and though she should feel uncomfortable, feel the tingle of goosebumps sweeping down her skin, she relaxed into them.

There was no sound but that of her breathing and her heartbeat, slow and steady.

She slid deeper and deeper into the darkness. It was protective—to her at least. Whenever she brought out an echo of this darkness, the people around her paled and shuddered. To them, it was unnatural and frightening; to her, it was home.

Jessamine paused as she noticed the turn her thoughts had taken and gently redirected her mind. She focused on the way her body was falling into a void, but the security she felt, knowing the darkness would never harm her. Her distractions slid away, and she was one with the cold, one with the shadows.

Then light. A dim glow from behind black fog.

When she passed through the final barrier, sound returned, as did an explosion of light. There was the air rushing in her ears as she tumbled down, down, down. There was the light, bright and vivid—almost blinding. It radiated from infinite strands of pulsing veins, a chaotic tangle that originated from somewhere below her, shooting off to connect to every cell of her body, infusing them with her magic.

She stopped, slamming into an invisible floor so suddenly that Jessamine had screamed the first time she'd done this—but by now, she was far more used to it, and she hardly even blinked. The impact shuddered through her body, but it was painless.

She was here, where her magic pulsed and flowed so densely it was almost hard to breathe. Not a core, exactly, but the heart that pumped the magic that infused her body, a counterpart to the physical muscle that thrummed with her blood. They beat in time with each other, their existences twined even if one couldn't truly be touched—if one failed, the other would support it.

Not that her magic would ever fail, so changed it was by the touch of Death. Once, it had been pure, rushing rivers of gold that roared through her veins; now its fury was tempered, its currents calmed but its depths deeper. It no longer burned, instead was as cool as the pale skin of a corpse.

She wondered how much of it was Death's influence and how much of it was simply her that she found that temperature so comfortable.

Or perhaps it was because it was only here, in this beating knot of magic, that she could allow her masks to peel back and she could sit, knowing, seeing, understanding herself in full clarity. It was all there, reflected back to her in the shadow and light that engulfed her.

But her time here was to be cut short. She felt her ripple of discontent pull her from her meditation, and heard the distorted voice speaking to her as though through a long, hollow tube. She followed the voice, recognising Stark's rapid-fire manner of speech.

"… asleep? That is so unprofessional. Do I pay you for this? Are you even listening to me, Wright? I'd fire you, but I'm not the kind of guy that does that to a pretty lady—even if she's drooling on her desk when she's supposed to be working."

"I do not drool, Mr Stark," sighed Jessamine, opening her eyes. "Nor was I sleeping. I was meditating."

"Uh." He looked as though he wasn't sure what the word 'meditating' meant. "Great. Meditate at home, won't you? Honestly, kids these days…"

"I'm on my lunch break."

Stark glanced at her desk, which while almost compulsively well-organised, was devoid of a single scrap of food.

"I wasn't hungry," said Jessamine, shrugging. "But as I understand it, I'm still entitled to an hour lunch break, even if I'm not eating anything."

"Okay," said Stark, losing interest. He was like that, Jessamine had come to understand over the week since she'd started working here. He switched to different strands of thoughts in a heartbeat, as though picking them out from thin air as they drifted through his mind. "Anyway, I'm headed off to Afghanistan tonight, but I've got time for dinner before then. What do you say? You, me, nice Italian place a few streets down? I'll drive."

Jessamine smiled, her lips pressed together and her eyes devoid of emotion. "No, thank—"

"No, thank you, Mr Stark, yeah," he finished, rolling his eyes. "Come on. You'll have a great time, I promise. It's the best Italian place in town; even if you don't like the company, you'll at least get some great food out of it." Jessamine tilted her head; he sounded almost self-deprecating. It was somewhat disturbing. "You won't regret it, I swear."

He looked at her then, dark brown eyes wide and sincere. He had a small smile on his lips—not a smug one, but an inviting, hesitant one. Hopeful. Stark looked like a small puppy who simply wanted a bit of love.

"No, thank you, Mr Stark."

Stark blinked. "You really are good," he told her. "But I'm still better. And I will convince you to let me take you on that date."

Something twitched under Jessamine's eye. "If that is all, Mr Stark, I believe my lunch hour is almost up."

He waved his hand, dismissive. "I'll give you an extra hour. With how neat your desk is, I'm pretty sure you don't even actually _have_ any work to do—which is amazing, by the way. There was at least three months' backlog before you got here."

"Thank you, Mr Stark. I'm glad to hear you are satisfied with my work."

"I could be even more satisfied if you let me take you to that Italian restaurant," said Stark, offering a boyish grin that crinkled up his eyes and seemed to light up his face. She had seen him smile like that in the direction of a passing woman before, after which the woman had proceeded to swoon and collapse onto the ground.

"No, thank you, Mr Stark." _Please leave_ , she thought.

"Yeah, I didn't think that would really work, either," admitted Stark. "Anyway, did you find it?"

Jessamine resisted the urge to rub at her eyes, choosing instead to prepare herself a cup of tea. She kept tea leaves and an insulated water bottle reinforced with Preservation Charms by her desk almost permanently now. She missed the days when she could curse anyone who irritated her. "Find what?"

"Your chi. Your centre. Core. Whatever it is the kids call it these days."

"Yes, I suppose," said Jessamine. "Though perhaps it is more accurate to say I found my clarity."

"Didn't think you were that kind of girl, Freckles," said Stark, leaning over to pick her tea straight from her hands just as she was about to take a sip.

Jessamine suppressed a scowl. "Please do not call me Freckles," she said, watching with building displeasure as he tilted his head back, gulping down the tea.

Stark gasped as he pulled the cup from his lips, eyes watering. "Hot, hot, hot, hot," he said. "Who drinks tea instead of coffee anyway?"

"That was _my_ tea," said Jessamine, eyeing the now-empty mug.

"So there is something else in there other than occasional frustration and a default state of an emotionless void," said Stark. "I was starting to think you were a female Jarvis. Except Jarvis has more emotion than you, not that I programmed him to have that much snark." He paused. "There's a name. Jarvis 2.0."

Jessamine snatched her cup back. "Please do not call me Jarvis 2.0, Mr Stark."

"Female Jarvis, then," said Stark. "I think it's a great name."

Jessamine stared stonily back at him. He rested his elbows on the counter, his chin weighing down on his palms.

"This was a nice moment," he told her after a full minute. "I told you you'd come around."

She sighed. "Mr Stark, if you do not leave, I will be forced to call Miss Potts and inform her that you are here despite not having packed for Afghanistan yet."

"Happy packs for me." He narrowed his eyes at her. "How did you know I haven't packed yet?"

"Mr Stark," said Jessamine, calling for patience. "I have the files you need for Afghanistan _right here_." She pulled out the stack of documents, dropping them on her desk.

"Happy hasn't picked them up yet?" demanded Stark, swiping them up. "I should fire him."

"Perhaps he is busy making sure you have enough pairs of boxers for your stay," said Jessamine drily.

He huffed. "Fine, fine. I'm leaving." He thumbed through the papers. "Thanks for this, female Jarvis."

Jessamine twitched again and reached over to pour herself a fresh cup of tea. She paused when she looked at the dredges remaining in the cup. The wet mass of tea leaves clung to the sides of the cup, formless and confused, yet it still imparted a vivid image that slammed into her mind with all the finesse of a sledgehammer. She sucked in her breath, her eyes glazing as they stared off to the side.

A single, massive eye hung in a stormy world of grey clouds and swirling winds. It was half-closed. Beneath the eyelid, she could see clear blue irises. A black tear budded at the corner of the eye.

Awakening. Turmoil. Strength. Death.

There was Stark's face, pale and beaded with sweat. He was unconscious.

The distant sound of gunfire. The smell of fear. Pain.

Then as quick as it came, the vision left her, and she lurched back into the physical world. She blinked rapidly as the dizziness subsided. Stark had already vanished into the lift. All that was left was the quiet hum of the air-conditioning, the bright sunlight that spilt through the windows.

A curious cup, she mused. It seemed her boss might be indisposed in the near future.

"Good luck, Stark," murmured Jessamine.

She returned to her work, idly hoping that this didn't mean she would have a bigger workload soon.

* * *

Jessamine picked up a sugar cube and dropped it into her tea with a quiet plonk. She stirred, the silver of her teaspoon glimmering beneath the deep brown surface of her English Breakfast. When it was all dissolved, she picked up the small milk saucer next to her cup. It was made of the same pretty, fragile china her teacup was. She added a dash of milk and stirred it in.

Taking her first sip of the tea, Jessamine frowned when she found it wasn't quite what she was accustomed to. She signalled to the waiter. "I'd like a stronger pot of tea, please," she told him.

He didn't manage to completely hide the twitch of his lips as he fought a scowl, but murmured the expected, "Of course, ma'am," anyway.

Jessamine sat in silence as she waited for a fresh pot of tea to be brought back to her, looking deliberately away from her companion. This was a relatively expensive—for Jess Wright's apparent budget, at least—teahouse, layered in frilly, gaudy décor. She had hoped they would have decent tea, but evidently not. The buzz of the other customer's chatter had been lowered to a distant hum by her privacy spells, and Snape's ever-useful _Muffliato_ ensured her and her companion would not be overheard.

The waiter returned, placing the new pot of tea before her.

"You drink tea like a fucking pureblood," said her companion as the man left, finally breaking her long, stony silence.

"I was taught etiquette by one," agreed Jessamine, turning to look at the woman face-on. She was of medium height, her hair a dark blonde. She had the look of someone who had recently lost a lot of weight; her clothes were worn and well-cared for, but they hung off her nearly skeletal frame. She had pale blue eyes, almost grey, weighed down by dark bags under them. The whites of her eyes were pink, the fine veins an inflamed red. There was resentment in them when she looked at Jessamine, who gave her a look of concern so well-feigned that the woman's sneer faltered. "Have you been seeing the Healer I found for you, Mum?"

Veronica Wright grimaced, looking as though she'd bitten into something sour. "Yes, dear," she said haltingly.

"He comes highly recommended," said Jessamine, pouring herself a fresh cup of tea and repeating the process of adding milk and sugar. "If you listen to him, he'll have you cured in no time."

"If he's as good as you say he is."

"He is."

Veronica snorted. "And I should take your word for it? I've asked my friends; they haven't even heard of this Healer you talk up so much. Maybe I should just find my own Healer—Astoria Malfoy is quite accomplished, I hear."

Jessamine looked at her, and for a moment, it seemed as though the green of her natural eyes shone through the powerful glamour laid over her entire body. Veronica shivered, her bravado cracking under the weight of Jessamine's gaze. "You will listen to _my_ Healer," said Jessamine quietly. "And you will be cured. Your time is not for a while yet."

The ominous way she had said 'your time' hung between them. That, more than anything, unsettled her. Veronica flinched and looked away. It reminded her of exactly who was sitting before her, and why the wizarding world feared her—the Mistress of Death.

"Of course," said Veronica, swallowing thickly. The green in Jessamine's eyes receded, fading back to pale blue. Veronica could not help but relax as the oppressive, cold magic dispersed.

Jessamine took a sip of her tea, looking perfectly at ease. She hummed; this pot was much better. "Let's not discuss such morbid topics over tea," she said lightly. "Have I told you about my new job? It's at Stark Industries—you've heard of it, surely. Miss Potts has been so kind to me. I've met Mr Stark too, but he's a bit irritating, I must say…"

As she continued the steady, inane chatter of her recent activities, Jessamine mused that Veronica Wright was truly a terrible actress. Her eyes were constantly darting about as though searching for escape, and the permanent tension in her shoulders were obvious indicators that something was not right. She did not look like a mother meeting her daughter, but a prey warring with fear and hatred, fighting the desire to run, instead forcing, ineptly but amusingly, a feeble facade of civility.

Finally, Veronica tired of the charade, cutting across Jessamine as she began to recount how Mr Stark had dropped in for the third time to ask her to lunch. "What happened to Jess?" demanded Veronica.

Jessamine obliged her in doing away with the pretences. "You know what happened to her," she said calmly. "I'm surprised you cared enough to ask after her. She would be too if she remembered you; she was so distraught when she learnt who it was exactly that gave her into our… care."

A brief look of pain, twisted together with guilt, flashed across Veronica's features, so similar to the features Jessamine now wore. "She's my daughter," said Veronica. "Of course I care."

"And yet," said Jessamine, her expression and tone cut from ice—cold, hard and unforgiving, "you sold her."

"I _loved_ her, hard as she made it to love her some days—"

"I'm sure you made it quite hard for her to love you too."

"—I fed her. Raised her. _Clothed her_. I hired tutors for her—the very best we could afford—and she spent her days at home, sulking—"

Jessamine's lips twisted, something feral rising within her and pulling her teeth back in a snarl. In her mind, she heard the echoes of her own guardians' voices, saying almost the exact same things. The emotion was leashed and locked away behind an impassive mask almost as soon as it broke through, and Veronica, so involved in her rant, did not notice the slip.

"— _only_ reason we were too poor to afford treatment in the first place was because that little _cunt_ wouldn't do anything but stay at home and sulk all day," finished Veronica, slamming her fist onto the table with surprising force, given how frail her body seemed. She froze, her breathing harsh as she glanced around at the other customers. None of them were looking their way, happily oblivious as they chattered amongst each other.

"Yes, it certainly seems like you care," said Jessamine, sneering. "Though she did like to sulk, I'll give you that much." She thought back to how Jess Wright had refused to sleep in the bed they'd given her until the day they dragged her kicking and screaming from her cell to her appointment with the Healer. "Doesn't really know how to make the best of her situation, that one."

Veronica scowled, glaring down at her untouched cup of tea. "Just… tell me she's fine. Then I can go home knowing I didn't, at least, sell my daughter to a life of—of horror." Another word was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't bring herself to say it. _Rape._

"I do not purchase women for prostitution, Veronica. It is insulting that you think of me and my associates in such poor light." Jessamine paused and decided to throw the woman a bone. A sharp one. "My associate tells me she's actually settling in quite well—so well, in fact, that she's found a job at a local store. She's made quite a few friends and even has her eye on someone. It would seem getting away from your influence was all she really needed to stop being a cunt."

The woman flushed, her fist clenching into a tight ball.

Jessamine drained the last of her tea and stared down at the bottom. Dark, swirling tea leaves were shaped in the vague likeness of a dog. The Grim. A future shrouded in death and unknown. She sighed, signalling for the bill. She paid in cash and stood, brushing her clothes off briskly. Veronica glared at her, but Jessamine was weary of this ridiculous interrogation. "This has been wonderful, Mum," she said in a monotone. "We should do this again. Soon. If you're feeling up for it, of course."

Veronica did not reply. Jessamine bent down, placing one hand on her shoulder and pressing a dutiful kiss to the withering cheek. She flinched away, but Jessamine's hand held her in place with a steel grip.

Her voice was a low hiss in Veronica's ear. "Do remember our agreement. It may not be your time yet, but should you be _indiscreet_ in regards to our dealings, your time might be cut significantly shorter. Do not contact me again unless it is an emergency."

Jessamine strode away, discreetly flicking her hand, dispelling the little spells she had placed around her table.

* * *

 **[A/N]:**

 **Yes, another one. I know. This one is just to answer a question and thank everyone who has followed, favourited and reviewed the story so far. It's actually received a far bigger response than I'd expected and feedback has been lovely. So thanks everyone for reading :)**

 **Someone asked about Jessamine's sexuality. Right now, she's feeling bisexual to me, so there may be brief mentions of femslash in the future, if not some, er, longer mentions. I highly doubt I will write sex scenes, het, femslash or otherwise, though.**

 **On a related note, I have made the decision that Jessamine will probably _not_ end up with either Tony or Loki. **

**Also, don't worry. If I choose to answer reviews in my A/N I'll keep it to the minimum. I have no intention of making people scroll for five minutes to go to the next chapter.**


	5. 5: Breaking News

It was a Saturday morning when Jessamine visited the Turnstile Diner again. Through the window, she could see two waiters, one the bored-looking teenage boy from her last visit—who still looked bored—and the second someone she didn't recognise. She glimpsed Gary working the kitchens in the back. Thankfully, it seemed Cheryl was indeed not in today.

She stepped into the diner, feeling the warmth rush to her the instant she opened the door. It was an abnormally cold morning, though even the coldest days of Los Angeles's winters could not compare to the biting chill she'd grown accustomed to in Scotland throughout her school years.

Jessamine shrugged off her jacket, nodding at the teenager, who waved back at her with a flat expression. "Table for one, please."

"Here's the menu," he said. "Take a seat and Kay will get to you in a bit." He gestured at the other waiter, who was taking someone else's order.

"Thank you," said Jessamine, glancing idly at the boy's name tag. Olson. She spared a brief thought of how unfortunate a name it was for a freckled, lanky teenage boy with more piercings than hair as she drifted off toward a quiet corner of the diner and slid into a booth.

She chose her order after a quick skim through the menu, and whiled away the time by pulling out her phone to flick through and explore the curious features in it. It was new technology even by muggle standards—an iPhone 3G which was, according to Finch-Fletchley, 'all the rage' with muggles right now.

"Hey, what can I get you?"

Jessamine's eyes flitted up. The waiter, Kay stood over her, a friendly smile on his face. She offered a more reserved one in return. "I'll get the American Breakfast with an Earl Grey, please." She paused. "Make the Earl Grey extra strong, if you could."

"Sure thing," said Kay. He picked up her menu and tucked it under his arm. Then he hesitated. "You wouldn't happen to be Jess, would you?"

She blinked. Under the table, her hand shifted, brushing against the hilt of her wand. "I am."

Kay looked relieved. "Oh, good. I was afraid I made a mistake there," he said. "Gary mentioned you a few days back."

Jessamine kept her hand on her wand. Her expression looked as calm as ever, though her polite smile was slightly strained to the sharp-eyed. "Gary mentioned me?"

"Yeah," said Kay, craning his head back to the kitchen. "I'll take your order to him and tell him you're here. He'll want to speak to you, I think."

"Of course," replied Jessamine, though Kay had already left. She drew her wand and rested it on her lap, her wand hand gripping the handle tightly. She released a tendril of her power. It searched out for warm life, wrapping around each thrumming soul it found. It reached the customers first—mundanes who were simply enjoying a meal and a chat. From the corner of her eye, she could see how those her magic touched shivered, a sudden chill descending on them. They dismissed it easily enough, but were slightly tense as they continued their conversation.

She found Olson next. A mundane, as was Kay. And finally, her magic wrapped around a humming soul that must have been Gary's.

As the first wave of knowledge drifted into her mind, she found that the shell of his soul was, indeed, mundane. She let her magic search more thoroughly in case, the tendril of power splitting into finer wisps, seeking and studying.

Then Jessamine frowned.

Beneath that mundane exterior, there was something else. It was a subtle difference, one she had almost missed. But once she focused in on it, it was impossible to ignore, for it felt like nothing she'd ever sensed before. He was not a wizard, whose soul burned fierce with liquid fire, nor was he a Squib, who held a smothered ember, weak but vivid nonetheless.

There was something _different_ about his soul, but she could not pinpoint what exactly, save that it seemed a bit brighter, a bit stronger. There was power in its core that Jessamine did not recognise.

She tensed as she felt Gary moving around in the kitchen. It unnerved her, this unknown power he held—but she stayed her hand, the edges of her unease smoothed, if only slightly, by what she could glean about his personality.

As all souls did, Gary's reflected his personality. Soft and sharp, cold and soothing. And beneath it all, a kind of steel that came from experience. He was kind and perceptive, valuing empathy and logical thought equally. His soul felt similar to an old friend's, one whose kindness was boundless and infinite.

If Gary shared even a sliver of Luna's sympathy, then Jessamine needn't fear him.

She felt Gary drawing closer then and retracted her power with a tinge of regret. She would have liked to study his soul further.

"Ah, Kay was right," came Gary's papery voice. She looked up, inclining her head in greeting. "Welcome back, my dear. I was afraid Cheryl had scared you off." He laid her dish down before her. It looked and smelled as delicious as the burger she'd had the other day. Truly, it would be such a shame if Gary turned out to be a threat.

"The food here is far too excellent for even Cheryl to keep me away," said Jessamine, breathing in the aroma. "How have you been, Gary?"

"Good, good," replied the older man, an absent note in his voice. Now that Jessamine was paying more attention to him, she noticed that his gaze roamed freely over her, though it was not out of lust that he stared at her so; there was no lecherous glint in his eye, only plain curiosity. "And you, my dear?"

"I've been well, thank you," said Jessamine. "My employer left on a business trip only two days ago and work has been far more relaxing without him there."

Gary chuckled. "A tough boss, is he?"

"Something like that."

"I know the sort," said Gary with a small grimace. "I used to work in a law firm before I opened up this little shop. They were hard on everyone in my old firm."

"Why did you quit?" asked Jessamine.

He frowned, his blue eyes darkening in remembrance. "I suppose I woke up and realised I'd become the kind of person I despised," he said. "Screaming at everyone, demanding them to do the impossible and caring more for profit and reputation than what was really important."

Jessamine tilted her head. "I can't imagine you being like that."

"It was a long time ago," he said wryly. His eyes flicked upwards, a familiar motion that she recognised in an instant. Her hand jerked, an almost reflexive Stunning Spell on the forefront of her mind, but she aborted the motion just as quickly. It could be a coincidence, though Jessamine doubted it very much. She had lived with that constant glance to her forehead for her entire life, had lived with the glint of awe or hatred that always followed.

He was staring exactly where her scar was.

The lightning bolt scar, while faded, still marred the skin over her right eye. It was a thin line that she had hidden with a dozen glamour charms and one of the strongest potions she knew when she'd taken on Jess Wright's appearance. Yet Gary had looked at that spot with unerring accuracy—as though he'd known it was there.

He looked away, giving her a gentle smile. "Well, enough of an old man's rambling. I'll leave you to your food."

"Thank you," said Jessamine. Her cheeks ached with a forced smile as her mind whirred and spun over the implications. She watched from the corner of her eye as he turned, his movements slow and lingering. She could feel his gaze sweep over her one more time, then he was gone.

She ate quietly. Though her eyes were fixed on the plate of food before her, she would hardly remember what it'd tasted like later. Instead, her attention was focused on the magic that had once more wrapped around Gary's soul, feeling, studying and sifting through the layers of his personality quirks and emotions, burrowing into his core.

The question burned in her mind long after she left.

 _What does he know?_

* * *

Pansy felt hot tears trickle down her face. Her eyes were red, as was her nose. Her hair was not as pristine as it usually was, a few flyaway hairs giving it a slightly dishevelled appearance. Her robes were simple and rumpled, as though she hadn't spared much time thinking about what to dress.

All in all, she looked the perfect picture of a distraught friend.

A camera flashed in her face. A reporter, one of the Patil twins, pushed eagerly to the front, a notepad and a Quick-Quotes Quill in hand. The quill was hard at work, scribbling away with fervour. She shouted out a question, but all the other reporters around her drowned out her voice. They clamoured around Pansy, who wiped her tears and put on a brave face. Her lips trembled.

Pansy's breath hitched softly. She began to speak, and the reporters all fell silent. "Earlier today, I learned that my dear friend, Jessamine Potter, has officially been declared missing," she said in a tremulous voice that she knew was the perfect combination of despair and fear for a lost friend. A reporter cooed in sympathy. "I ask anyone who has any information about her disappearance: please, come forward. I beg all of you to help us catch the _monsters_ who did this to Jessamine." Pansy shook her head, bowing her head low as her shoulders shook. The cameras flashed again, like hounds lunging forth at the scent of weakness. "She doesn't deserve this. All Jessamine ever wanted after the war was peace. She just wanted—she was _finally_ living her life. Please, if any of you have any information—anything at all could be useful. Thank you."

Pansy stepped away, the reporters chasing after her. She shook her head wordlessly, declining further comment. The Aurors around her swarmed forwards, creating a barricade.

She Apparated away from the shouts and questions, and into the blessed silence of her home.

Her hunched figure straightened itself. Her shaking shoulders stilled. She let out a sigh, feeling the weariness weigh on her. Crying was exhausting business, especially when she had to continuously think of sad memories to keep the tears flowing. Conjuring herself a tissue, Pansy wiped her eyes and nose, then checked her reflection in the mirror. Her mascara hadn't run, thanks to a few nifty charms, nor had her foundation been ruined by her tears.

She smiled in satisfaction, smoothing down her hair. With a wave of her wand, she cleaned away her makeup. She stripped off her clothes and walked to her bathroom, humming under her breath. Her house-elves had already drawn her the special bath she'd instructed them to do. Soapy bubbles of water sat on the water surface, rose petals scattered elegantly over the water and floor, and scented candles lined the sides. There was even an expensive bottle of champagne floating beside the tub, already popped open with a flute of fizzling champagne next to it.

She stepped into the warm water, settling into her bath with a pleased smile. She could feel the tension in her shoulders from dealing with all the reporters and rumours loosen already.

After this, she had a facial and a massage booked in an exclusive beauty salon in France. She'd made a late booking—a nearly impossible feat that even Narcissa Malfoy would have to pay an arm and a leg for. But that was one of the perks of being associated with Jessamine Potter—pure, exquisite luxury available with a single Floo call. Then after she'd been pampered into blissful oblivion, she would treat herself to a lovely dinner, which was to be cooked by her house-elves with the best quality of ingredients out there.

It was a ridiculous amount to spend in a single day. But a girl had to pull out all stops when she's alone on Valentine's Day, thought Pansy, conveniently ignoring that she indulged herself like this every month.

Besides, Pansy quite deserved this after the chaos Jessamine had put her through with her disappearance. Rita Skeeter had been in proper form over the past week, spinning rumours of Jessamine Potter murdering the Mistress of Death in a jealous fit of her power, and vanishing with the notorious Deathly Hallows. But only a minority really believed in that, and Pansy had all but doused the rumour in a vat of iced water after her performance today.

The dominant theory was that Jessamine had been killed by the Mistress of Death, who had fled Britain, fearing persecution from the law.

Either way, it did not matter. Jessamine Potter had disappeared, and soon enough, would be presumed dead when she did not resurface. Four months from now, Pansy would quietly move to America, seeking a fresh start away from the country that reminded her of her lost friend every day.

It was all very tragic.

Pansy relaxed in the bath for another half hour, only getting out when she saw it was almost time for her one o'clock Portkey to France. Her appointment with the beauty salon was at three, which would leave her some time for shopping at Champs-Élysées.

She dried herself off, slipping on a smooth, silky set of robes that were layered in warming charms. Floating brushes dusted over her face, blending in a fresh layer of foundation and blush. She was just putting on the finishing touches when her phone let out a cheerful ding of noise, startling her.

Her lipstick smeared a little too far to the left.

Pansy scowled. Why she'd let Jessamine bully her into getting the damned thing, she would never know. All it did was make noises and send her these ridiculous notifications about system updates, payment plans and people she didn't care about.

She gave the screen a cursory glance.

 _BREAKING NEWS: Stark Convoy Attacked In Afghanistan._

Pansy rolled her eyes, returning to trying to dab her smeared makeup as delicately as possible. She didn't have time to read about some silly muggle; her Portkey was in ten minutes and her makeup was a mess. She did not dare show her face in Paris looking as ghastly as she did right now.

Then she paused, her lips half-filled in with deep crimson. Stark. Wasn't that Jessamine's employer? The irritating one? She tapped on the news article, bringing it up in an instant.

 _… in Afghanistan for a demonstration of his new weapons technology called the Jericho. As he was being escorted back to the airport where his flight was waiting, his military convoy was attacked by an unknown group of assailants. There were twenty casualties in the assault; seven of them were US soldiers whose names are listed below. As of this point, no group has come forward to take credit for the attack yet. It is unknown if Mr Stark is injured, or even, alive._

 _Tony Stark is the CEO of Stark Industries and a renowned technological genius…_

Her phone buzzed with an incoming call.

Jessamine Potter.

Even half a world away, Jessamine still had impeccable timing. Pansy swiped 'Accept', pressing her phone to her ear. "Your boss has been kidnapped," she told her.

There was a pause on Jessamine's end. "That was quicker than I'd expected," she said. "More importantly, I have an interesting conundrum."

"Oh?" Pansy had a bad feeling about this.

"Say there is a man. He is neither a Squib nor a wizard. He does not have a single drop of magical blood in him. He is almost entirely mundane, save for the fact that he can see through a full set of the heaviest glamour charms and strongest potions. How is that possible?"

"… It isn't."

"And yet," sighed Jessamine, "it apparently is. Unless, of course, he somehow knew who I was beforehand, and therefore, was not doing the impossible and seeing through my spells. Instead, he was doing the much more plausible and was simply looking where he thought my scar should be. But if that were the case…" Her voice chilled, suddenly much more ominous. "That would mean we have a leak somewhere."

Pansy's head dropped, her fingers rubbing the pinched skin between her eyebrows. She spared a longing thought for the lovely spa and dinner she'd had planned out. "I'll look into it as soon as I can," she said.

"Thank you," said Jessamine, reverting to a lighter tone. "You're such a dear."

"I am," replied Pansy with a wrinkle of her nose. "Do check tomorrow's copy of the Daily Prophet. You have officially been declared missing."

"Very exciting," said Jessamine. "I'll leave you to it then. I've just sent you a picture of the man."

"Mm. I'll call you tomorrow to give you an update."

"Perfect."

The line went dead. Pansy listened to the dull beeps, staring with regret at the clock on her vanity. It was less than a minute from one o'clock. She set her phone down and walked to her bedroom, reaching it in time to see a black hair tie glow a faint blue. A second later, it vanished in a distorted swirl, and Pansy was left alone in her house instead of on the gorgeous streets of Paris.

She sighed wearily. Perhaps she should ask for a raise.

* * *

 **[A/N]: Yep, I'm slowing down. I'll try (key word: try) to post once a week, but I do have a bunch of essays due soon, so I might drop out of existence for a bit.**

 **I've gotten quite a few reviews on who I should pair Jessamine with. Some of the reviews have been pretty insightful and given me a different perspective of how some of the Marvel characters' personalities would mesh with Jessamine's. I'll chew on that for a little longer before I make a decision of who Jessamine will end up with,** **but I've pretty much ruled out Tony Stark completely at this point (sorry). Imo, Tony needs someone who is willing to give him a lot of emotional support and has more optimism to balance out his more self-destructive tendencies. And well... Jessamine isn't exactly sunshine and puppies.**

 **Well, that's it for this week. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, followed and favourited! You guys make my day.**

 **Hope you enjoyed the chapter :)**

 **P.S. Some of you may have noticed how I've changed the summary about six times by now. It's like a disease and I just can't stop doing it and I just did it again. Hopefully for the last time.**


	6. 6: In Time

Pepper sat in her office, a wrinkled ball of tissues in her hand. She clutched it tightly, fraying pieces of white coming away from it with every repetitive, circular rub of her thumb. A single sheet of paper was laid before her. She'd memorised its contents the night before and practised before the mirror, her voice strong and clear. But now, ten minutes before the press conference was due to begin, the sobs hitched in her throat and stifled her every breath.

She stared at the printed letters that filled three-quarters of the page, not really seeing them.

There was a knock on the door. Pepper gasped in surprise, quickly reaching over for a fresh tissue and drying her eyes and nose.

"Come in," she said, wincing when her voice came out hoarse.

The door opened to reveal a vaguely familiar blonde woman. After a moment, she remembered—she was the new employee, the one Tony had been dropping in to chat to recently.

Pepper scrambled to remember her name. "You're… Jess Wright, yes?"

"Yes, Miss Potts," said Jess, pale blue eyes darting over to Pepper's face for a brief moment before they looked deliberately away. Pepper blushed; she'd dried her tears but there had been no helping the redness that splotched her face and rimmed her eyes. "If you are busy, I could come back another time."

Pepper pushed away her embarrassment. "No, that's alright," she said. "What did you need?"

"I have some documents that require Mr Stark's signature," said Jess, laying a blue folder on the table. "I wasn't sure what to do with them."

"Leave them with me," said Pepper. If her voice sounded a little choked, Jess gave no indication that she'd noticed anything. Her expression remained cordial and inscrutable. "If there are any other documents like that that come your way, just leave them on my desk. I'll sort through it."

"Of course," said Jess. "I also have a few questions about some of the papers you left with me; I couldn't quite understand what—"

A knock on the door interrupted her. Both women looked up.

It was Obadiah. Pepper gave him a quick, genuine smile. She'd never really had any meaningful conversation with him before, but he'd been a lifesaver throughout the whole mess. "Pepper? They're ready for you."

"Oh, right," she said, standing. She searched for her lipstick for a quick reapplication. "Just give me a second, Obadiah."

He strolled in, his suit neatly pressed and his beard trimmed. He looked the same as ever, save for the dark circles under his eyes. It made Pepper feel better, knowing that she wasn't the only one so affected by Tony's kidnapping. Obadiah fished out a hip flask as he settled down in an open seat. "Who's this?" he asked, staring at Jess.

Jess gave him an empty, bland smile. "Jess Wright, Mr Stane," she said. "A pleasure to meet you."

"Jess Wright," mused Obadiah. "Ah. You're the girl working up in Tony's office."

"Yes."

"Tony mentioned you; said you were a tough nut to crack," said Obadiah. He gave a wry smile, his eyes softening in nostalgia. "He always liked challenges, our Tony. In his women and his projects."

"Well," said Pepper, snapping her purse shut with a loud, echoing click. "He'll be back soon enough." She hadn't liked the way Obadiah spoke of Tony—as though Tony was gone already. Obadiah looked at her as she walked around her desk. For a moment, she thought she saw something dark glittering in his eyes. It chilled her, but the emotion in his gaze had vanished so quickly Pepper thought it must have been her imagination.

She chided herself for being silly. Tony's kidnapping had left her shaken and paranoid, and perhaps a little broken in a way she didn't want to admit.

"Yeah," said Obadiah, his voice low. "He's a tough nut to crack too." He glanced between Jess and Pepper. "I'll see you outside, Pep. Good to meet you, Jess."

"Mr Stane," murmured Jess, her head dipping just a fraction.

Pepper turned to Jess. "I'm sorry," she said. "It looks like we'll have to do this another time."

"That's quite alright." Jess paused, a slight frown disturbing her usual, placid expression. "A word of advice, Miss Potts?"

"Uh," said Pepper, blinking. "Sure, I guess."

Jess kept her gaze on the door through which Obadiah had just left. Pepper shivered, unnerved though she didn't quite know why. She felt... cold. "Pardon me for the riddles, but I'm afraid the rules are never so kind to us." Jess turned to look at Pepper, an apologetic look playing across her face. "Blue is white, white is red. Nothing is as it seems, and the mind likes to play tricks on what the eyes know."

There was a long pause as Pepper stared at her, bewildered. "Thank you," she managed finally, her voice trailing off into a question.

Jess smiled. It wasn't like her close-mouthed smiles of cordial pleasantness. It wasn't a pleasant smile at all, in fact; it had too many teeth and felt too cold for that. "You do not understand," said Jess. "That's fine. All that matters is you remember these words. The answer will come in time."

She dismissed herself, and Pepper watched her exit the room, still too confused to do much more than blink. She wanted to dismiss Jess's words as strange ramblings from a strange woman, but she couldn't quite bring herself to.

Pepper tried not to think about the conversation, staring intently at her speech. This wasn't the time to be distracted, not when she was about to go out and face the press. She braced herself before leaving her office.

Yet the words would not leave her, even as her well-practised speech passed over her lips. They were mocking, a lilting rhythm almost like a song.

 _Blue is white, white is red._

"… no group has yet claimed responsibility…"

 _Nothing is as it seems._

"… hope for the safe return of Mr Stark…"

 _And the mind likes to play tricks…_

"… business operations will continue as usual…"

 _… on what the eyes know._

"… company in the capable hands of Mr Obadiah Stane…"

Later, Pepper would go home. She would lie in bed, the words still echoing in her head. Then she would frown because, for the life of her, she would not be able to recall who had said those strange words.

* * *

Jessamine slit the fish from its tail up to the base of its gills, which flapped in helpless, fluttering motions. The fish trashed once, twice then stilled.

Behind her, Pansy retched as quietly as she could—which wasn't very quietly at all. Jessamine ignored her, digging her fingers into the fish's fleshy insides. Its organs were slippery on her fingers, but she'd grown quite adept at gutting fishes since her time with the Dursleys. She pulled out the innards with a quick yank, then tossed the fish's remains away.

Pansy whimpered. "It smells."

"I'm sure you would smell too if I gutted you and pulled out your intestines," said Jessamine absently as she spread the entrails out on a smooth surface of her _tabula_. Goblin silver plated the sides of the wooden block, runes etched into the metal. They kept the blood stains from settling into the yew, leaving it a light, pristine colour. More than that, they focused her readings—as much as haruspicy could be focused anyway.

Jessamine picked at the fishy guts, closing her eyes. Murky impressions formed in her mind. For long moments, nothing definite came to her. Then she saw it: the fish she'd gutted glowed like fire within the darkness, swimming through a shifting fog. It pulled her through the wispy grey, leading her beyond. There was Gary's face, his eyes kind and curious. The mist swirled, changing. She saw a dark room, wide and spacious, made of metal and steel. In its centre, something glowed, a tiny beacon of light. She dug deeper, trying to glean a location. The fish in her vision wriggled, its stomach bulging, before its entrails shot out like vipers.

She opened her eyes. The entrails in the physical world had changed too, now shaped in a messy approximation of the rune _laguz._

Pansy peered down at the board with her. "A weird 'one'," deadpanned Pansy. "What in Salazar's name does that mean?"

"It's Elder Futhark," sighed Jessamine. "Don't you remember Ancient Runes?"

"No one but you and Granger remembers Ancient Runes," grumbled Pansy.

Jessamine rolled her eyes but did not bother to correct her friend. "It's _laguz_. Literally, it means 'water'. It symbolises dreams, mysteries and life force." She frowned. "But this one is reversed. That suggests lack of creativity, fear and… poor judgement."

Pansy was uncertain. "That doesn't sound very positive."

"It isn't. Nor is it very helpful," said Jessamine. She didn't think an ability to see through glamours had anything to do with lack of creativity or poor judgement. "I did tell you haruspicy was one of the most imprecise branches of Divination."

"It was better than interrogating everyone in London again," said Pansy crossly. She was frustrated, and Jessamine could not really blame her for being so. She'd made Pansy question her circle five times before conceding that there was almost no possible way that a leak had come from them. After which, Pansy had Portkeyed to Jessamine's new home to help her comb through thick, dusty books written in a variety of languages, in hopes of finding a possible reason for how Gary could have seen through her glamours.

Jessamine stared down at the reversed rune of _laguz_. She was missing something, she was sure. The entrails had communicated with her—they would not have done that had they nothing to tell her. But what exactly they were trying to tell her, she couldn't know.

"More research, I suppose?" said Pansy with a dirty look at the books stacked high on the table.

Jessamine opened her mouth to reply, then paused. "No," she said slowly. "Poor judgement… circular motion…" Her eyes darted up to the table, upon which book upon book sat, papers upon papers scattered. Each had offered nothing on the problem, leading her in endless circles. The suspicion crept up on her like a dark shadow. She Conjured a flame in her bare hand and threw the fish's innards in.

Smoke, curling tendrils of it, rose as the flesh sizzled to ash in her palm. They twisted in the air, looping in a circle. Jessamine smiled.

"What is it?" asked Pansy, leaning forwards to stare at the shape.

"I feel very foolish," said Jessamine. Her fist clenched, putting out the fire. "We've been looking in the wrong places." With a wave of her hand, she Banished the books back to their places in her library shelves. "We were right; nothing _magical_ could have given a muggle such power."

The bags beneath Pansy's eyes deepened as she processed the implications of Jessamine's statement. "Surely you are not suggesting that the muggles have the answer?"

"That is precisely what I'm suggesting, Pansy," said Jessamine. "The answer is _science._ Perhaps, magic is involved too, but not magic we know yet." She thought fast as she spoke, her hands growing more animated with every word. "The muggles cannot be responsible for this. They have barely begun to scrape beyond a surface understanding of magic; how can they begin to create a mundane capable of seeing through glamours when not even we know enough of magic to twist its rules so easily? But they might have the answer without knowing that they have it."

"But what if it is the work of muggles?" asked Pansy, a look of faint panic on her face. "Jessamine, do we realise what this could mean for our world? If the muggles have learnt how to see through our glamours? Who knows if that's all they know how to do? What if they—"

"Calm down," said Jessamine firmly. Her friend fell silent, but she still wrung her hands in worry. "The muggles are not capable of this. I would _know_ if they were."

Pansy's eyes widened. "Are you saying that your," she paused, licking her lips nervously, " _powers_ would tell you?"

"Something like that," said Jessamine, but did not elaborate further. Pansy relaxed. She sank into a chair, still looking pale. The silence stretched on as Jessamine waited for her friend to calm a little more. When Pansy felt less shaken, she spoke.

"So how do we start?"

Jessamine pursed her lips. "You know how to use the Internet, don't you?"

"Er," said Pansy. "Yes?"

"You know how to Google things, at least," said Jessamine, a hint of anxiety tinging her voice.

"That's the one where you can watch those videos—like Pensieve memories," said Pansy brightly. Then she saw Jessamine's cringe. "Or not."

Jessamine sighed. "Oh dear."

* * *

 **[A/N]: I do enjoy writing about Jessamine's dabblings in Divination. I definitely plan to include more methods of Divination in the future.**

 **I do hope things aren't moving too fast or too slow. This chapter was a bit of a break, kind of, so I only expanded on already existing plot points (and even that, not progressing very much). I probably won't introduce any new plot elements for a while. It's starting to feel a little cluttered or rushed to me, like I'm throwing things into a mixing pot and hoping for the best. Hopefully, it doesn't feel that way to you guys.**

 **Anyway, let me know what you guys think of the chapter! Any constructive criticism is also welcome.**


	7. 7: A Spark of Life

**[A/N]: Well, I'm a bit late but I managed to get a chapter up this week, so I'm pretty proud of that. I finished one of my assignments (phew) and now I have two more to go x.x I actually have one due tomorrow that I haven't started yet. 800 words in a foreign language. That should be fun.**

 **I also watched Infinity War a few days ago! So that was exciting. If you guys haven't watched it yet, do. It was pretty good. While I was watching it, I also came to a decision of who I'm going to pair Jessamine with. Here's a hint:** **it's not a dude** — **it's a man.**

 **That was a pretty obvious hint, I think. I'm about 90% set on this pairing, so it _is_ still subject to change.**

 **Anyway, let's get to the story. Enjoy!**

* * *

The warehouse, to most, was an abandoned building by the side of one of the quieter streets of L.A. Usually, this meant that the homeless people would flock there for shelter, yet this building was curiously deserted. The rats skittered around, giving the warehouse a wide berth. The crowd's wandering eyes slid past it easily, as though it wasn't even there.

Jessamine knocked on the run-down door. It swung open, but there was no one on the other side, only a stretch of concrete with rubbish littered across. She strode in, stopping in front of the back wall. Her eyes scanned the floor until she found the engraved, circular marks she was looking for.

She stepped into the runic circle and brandished a wand of laurel, with a sliver of a Horned Serpent's fang in its core. It was unfamiliar in her hands, but she did not want to carry with her the Elder Wand, so recognisable with its inscribed symbol of the Deathly Hallows, nor her holly wand, which had become something of an artefact she kept secured in her home.

Foreign magics rose around Jessamine, the runic circle glowing briefly. They wrapped around her wand, noted its strong, thrumming connection to her. Satisfied in finding that it was indeed a witch that stood within the circle, the doorway before her revealed itself.

The stone wall that barred her way melted into nothingness, and as it disappeared, sound began to filter through—loud chatter of a boisterous crowd, the volume raising until she heard the shrieks of children's laughter and the cries of vendors.

Jessamine stepped through, feeling the doorway seal itself back up as she did so. And just like that, she'd stepped into a different world.

"… Mommy, _look_ , it's the new Firebolt 210!"

"… Mandrake roots got so expensive…"

"… heard about the new dollar to Galleon exchange rates…"

"… don't need new dress robes yet…"

"Enchanted amulets," roared a man next to her. He brandished glittering necklaces of silver and gold from his fingers, waving them in people's faces. "Only twenty Sickles each, and they'll protect you from all sorts of Dark magic!"

She pushed past him, but he'd spotted her. A predatory grin lit up his face and he maneuvered himself into her path. "What about you, lady?" he drawled. "A pretty necklace for a pretty lady! I'll sell it to you for ten Sickles if you tell your friends about this—you'll never get a deal like that anywhere else."

"No, thank you," said Jessamine shortly. She tried to move to the side, but he moved with her. Like a shark on the trail of blood, he'd heard her foreign accent and thought her a tourist—an easy target to get money from.

"Come on," cajoled the salesman. "Here, try it on. It blocks all kinds of spells—the Boiling Curse, the Flame Curse, the Glacius Hex—"

"No," she said again, raising the laurel wand slightly. It still felt too slender, too smooth to her, but her magic rose easily through it; the curious wand had embraced her as its new master eagerly, like a puppy chasing after her affection. Power drew through it almost as smoothly as it did through the Elder Wand.

The salesman caught the movement and he backed away. "Alright, alright. No need to get pissy about it." He turned from her. "Enchanted amulets! Fends off Dark magic and only twenty Sickles! Twenty Sickles, ladies and gentlemen!"

Jessamine continued on, though she was disturbed again more than once and jostled constantly by the crowd. Despite it being the beginning of March and nowhere near the start of the new school year, the Pixie's Burrow was still full of people. She wondered what school season was like here and shuddered.

She wandered around for a bit, having never been to the Pixie's Burrow before. Its layout was distinctly different from Diagon Alley, which was a flat sprawl of twisting cobbled roads and little nooks and crannies squeezed between narrow buildings.

The Pixie's Burrow, on the other hand, was a wide and spacious square. Its floors were smooth stone that stretched seamlessly into four walls. Steep ramps of dirt and stone curved along the edges, charmed to roll continuously forwards like magical equivalents of escalators, giving off a deep, constant groan that rumbled under the loud chatter and bustle of the crowd. There were at least ten levels of shops in here.

Leaves of deep blue drifted down from the top. Jessamine watched them vanish as they touched the ground. Looking upwards, she saw that at the highest point of the domed ceiling, a massive tree grew upside down, its roots clinging to the carved stone beams. Its branches grew wild towards the ground, some hanging over the walkways of the upper levels. And though it was still winter, they were so full of leaves that Jessamine could only glimpse an occasional flash of the wood's deep brown.

It was a wondrous sight. For a brief, ecstatic moment, Jessamine felt as though she was eleven again, entering Diagon Alley for the first time with Hagrid by her side. Awe and amazement welled up within her, surprising her with its intensity that buoyed her spirits.

Then she blinked, and the high left her as quickly as it came. Sense reasserted itself, telling her that this was not the most impressive thing she'd seen before. Yet it left her feeling a little hollow. She'd not felt such wonder in quite a while, she realised.

Jessamine shook her head, recalling her shopping list; she'd done enough exploring for the day, and Pansy would get irritated if she was away from the house and their research for too long, even if said research had come to a dull stagnation.

Her first stop was Gringotts, but she knew the goblins would not take kindly to the heavy glamour overlaying her face. She ducked into an obscure corner, donning the hood of her cloak as she wiped the image Jess Wright from her body. She shook her head as she regained a lost inch or two, disoriented. Long black hair tumbled over her shoulders, instead of the blonde she'd gotten used to. Jessamine felt almost bare—she'd not removed the disguise for the entire time since moving to America, and it felt strange to wear her own face again. She cast a charm to blur her features to any passing wizard or witch.

The Gringotts entrance was on the far end of the square, marbled steps leading her into the deep underground. Two goblins guarded the entrance, stiff, unmoving figures. She released the Distortion Charm over her face for a moment, nodding at them as she swept past. They glared back but did not move to bar her entrance.

Jessamine could feel goblin magics gathering beneath the earth. They were thin near the surface, but she felt them prickle across her skin, familiar yet not. The Mistress of Death knew all magics and life; Jessamine Potter found the feeling unnatural beneath her skin.

The inside of Gringotts was much like the interior of the one in Diagon Alley. Polished floors and walls, opulence and treasures of the earth displayed in every inch of its surface. She stood in queue. One teller over, a family of four, with two children, a boy and a girl were talking.

"Devin, stop that," hissed the girl. She was older, perhaps in her fourth year of schooling. Her younger brother still clutched a stuffed Wampus in his hands and was pressing it into the girl's cheek.

"But Yasmine," said Devin, "Billy wants to talk to the goblins."

Yasmine rolled her eyes. "Billy doesn't want anything because Billy's a toy, you idiot."

He pouted. "Billy's not a toy; he's my friend."

"Well, he doesn't have a heartbeat, does he? That means Billy's your dead friend then."

" _Yasmine_!"

"What?"

"You hurt Billy's feelings."

"Ugh," mumbled Yasmine. "Mom, can I leave? Mary's waiting for me at Rickie's Robes."

The older woman glanced down at her children. "If you take Devin with you."

Devin snickered, while Yasmine glared balefully. "I'm not taking Devin with me to meet Mary," she informed her mother. "That's so lame."

"Lame," repeated the woman, exchanging a look with her husband. "I don't see how something can be 'lame' if it hasn't got legs."

"Oh my God," said Yasmine. "You guys are so embarrassing. Don't you know _anything_ about No-Majs?"

The mother gave her a narrow-eyed look. "And you've been talking to No-Majs, have you?"

"Um… Of course not, Mom."

Jessamine did not hear the rest of the argument, as her teller had called her up to the counter. She slid a silver key across the surface. "Jess Wright, Vault 341."

The teller's slitted eyes darted up to her, grabbing the key with spindly fingers. A moment of examination later, he grunted. "Face," he said. She let the Distortion Charm flicker away. When he nodded again, she put it back up. The goblin would know she was not Jess Wright. He'd also know that Vault 341 had only recently been put into use and that a surprising sum of Galleons had found its way in there from an old family's account in Britain.

But goblins cared not for the business of humans. "Blackfang will take you," spat the goblin. He waved another goblin forwards, and Jessamine fell in step behind the creature without another word. Goblins, she'd found, were best dealt with like hot iron. With minimal contact and when your business was finished, drop them instantly.

After a winding cart ride down to her vault, Jessamine had a sack of Galleons tucked away beneath her cloak and was on her way out of the bank.

She was just about to take the first step onto the marble stairs when she heard a young boy's voice.

Jessamine turned, watching the boy she'd seen earlier—Devin—wander up to a goblin while speaking quietly to his stuffed toy. "You want to see the goblins, Billy?" whispered Devin. He made it nod twice. "Uh-huh."

He headed towards one of the goblins stationed around the hall, stopping in front of it with large, curious eyes. The goblin snarled back. It was like watching a lion intimidate a belligerent Crup.

"Hello," said Devin in a loud whisper. "What's your name?"

The goblin spoke a string of guttural noises in Gobbledygook, which Jessamine roughly translated to ' _Fuck off, filthy human spawn_ '.

The boy tried to imitate him, his human tongue tripping over the foreign words. Jessamine pressed her lips together in effort to hide her amusement, making out 'fuck' and 'filthy' amidst the mangled mess of Devin's Gobbledygook. The goblin looked torn between murderous rage and befuddlement.

She took pity on the boy and strode away from her queue. She pressed a hand onto Devin's shoulder. "Come, child," she said, deciding on a less conspicuous American accent. Devin looked up and his eyes widened.

"Cool," said the boy. "You don't have a face."

Jessamine blinked, then remembered the Distortion Charm over her face. "Apparently not," she said. "Come along. Let's get you back to your parents."

Devin pouted. "But Billy wanted to talk to Mr Goblin a bit more."

"Unfortunately, Mr Goblin doesn't want to talk to Billy," said Jessamine. "Let's go now before Mr Goblin gets angry." She tugged him gently along. Reluctantly, he followed. The goblin behind them hissed at their backs, irritated.

"Why was he angry?" asked Devin, sounding sad. "I was only asking for his name."

"Well, goblins don't like humans very much, you see," she explained. "They don't have much patience for us, I'm afraid."

"But I just wanted to be friends."

"You're better off looking elsewhere, child," she advised him as she caught sight of his family, who had yet to notice his absence. She pressed a finger to her lips, signalling him to pretend he'd never left.

Devin grinned. Then he tilted his head to the side, pretending to listen to his stuffed toy. "What's your name?" he asked in a low whisper. "Billy wants to know."

Jessamine raised an eyebrow. " _Billy_ wants to know, does he?"

"Yeah," said Devin, his cheeks colouring a little.

"I'm Elise," lied Jessamine.

"Why don't you have a face, Elise?"

"You're a precocious one," she said with a small smile. "I hid it away."

"You can't hide faces," said Devin incredulously. "You're lying to me."

"This is a world of magic, child. It is not so difficult a feat to hide faces," said Jessamine.

"You talk funny."

Jessamine paused. "If you say so," she said. "Look, your parents are going ahead."

"Oh," said Devin. Indeed, his family had wandered up to the goblin teller's counter, his mother and sister still arguing while his father spoke in flustered words to the goblin. "I should go, I guess." He sounded reluctant.

Jessamine glanced down at him. The boy watched his parents and sister, a slightly forlorn look in his eyes. He was a lonely child—not quite in the same way as Jessamine had been in her own childhood, but rather more like a child who was used to being ignored. Still, she felt a faint empathy for him. "Could I borrow Billy, please?"

Devin tilted his head at her. "Okay," he said uncertainly. He handed over the Wampus toy. It was worn and a little dirty. It looked as though it'd been patched up and put through several washes. A well-loved little thing.

Jessamine wondered if she could do this. It was an experiment of a sort—hopefully, it wouldn't destroy the toy. She reached into the colder parts of her magic, tendrils of Death twined in them. She sent a jolt of it into the Wampus toy. It was a little bit like a spark of life into it—though only an imitation of life.

The toy jerked in her hands. Devin stared at it.

A moment passed without anything else happening. Just when Jessamine thought that perhaps it had failed, the Wampus twitched again. Its limbs wiggled. Jessamine flattened her palm, watching as Billy stood up shakily. Then his paws reached out, like a cat stretching after a long nap.

He blinked at her, then looked at Devin, who stared back at him in amazement. The Wampus began to purr.

"There you go," said Jessamine, handing him back. She'd even given the toy a heartbeat, though no actual blood was being pumped. "That should last… for a long time."

Devin gingerly picked up his toy. The Wampus licked his cheek and he giggled. "That's so cool," he breathed. He looked up at Jessamine with shining eyes. "Thank you!"

Jessamine smiled faintly. "Off you go. Before your parents find you missing."

He launched himself at her, giving her an unexpected hug. "Thank you," he whispered again, then he was off, running back to his family.

Jessamine could still feel his short arms wrapped around her waist. She stood there for a while in her surprise, before shaking herself from it. When she left the bank, she spied Devin chattering eagerly away to his sister, showing her how Billy could stand and breathe and play.

She savoured the precious warmth that she felt at the sight, committing it to memory.


	8. 8: Power Play

When Jessamine walked into work on Monday morning, she was stopped by a rather unexpected sight. She halted at the doorway, her clicking heels silenced.

Sitting behind her desk, in a pressed, freshly ironed suit was Obadiah Stane. He was leaning back, his hands behind his head, eyes staring up at the ceiling. He looked calm and confident, as though the desk belonged to him—which, considering he owned a significant portion of Stark Industries, wasn't unlikely. Jessamine walked forwards, setting her things on the table. "Good morning, Mr Stane," she said.

Stane continued to look up at the ceiling, as though he could see the world before him right there. It was a blatant power play—a way of saying that she was not worth his attention. Yet clearly she was, if he sat behind her desk, waiting for her. "He liked you, you know," said Stane. "I called him up and he told me about a new girl. He said you were different; difficult."

"Mr Stark, I presume." She fished out a specialty can of rosebud tea, sprinkling it into her mug. "Tea, Mr Stane?"

"Black, if you have it. Two sugars," he said with all the ease of a man used to having his orders taken. "And please, call me Obadiah."

Jessamine inclined her head, pulling out another cup. "Tell me then, Obadiah, what can I do for you? Surely, you are not here for nostalgic reminiscence of Mr Stark with a woman who knew him for less than two weeks."

Stane chuckled. "Cut straight through the bullshit, don't you?" he said. Finally, he met her gaze, straightening himself. "He was right—you are different. I could tell the moment I saw you the other day."

"And what, pray tell, could you tell?" asked Jessamine. She walked around the desk towards the small kitchenette just a short distance away. She could feel his eyes boring into her back, but she ignored them and put the kettle on instead. When she turned back around, he was grinning.

Stane had an odd smile. He had a way of lowering his head as he did so, hooded eyes staring up in a way that made them seem shadowed. The skin around his eyes crinkled, but it never seemed the warmth of his smile never seemed to touch his eyes, which were always dark and calculating. It was almost ridiculous, how much Stane reeked of malicious intent and untrustworthiness.

"That," he said, pointing at her. "No one in this company would walk away from me like you just did. I might not be as popular as old Tony, but the employees know me. And they respect me."

"I respect you," said Jessamine. It wasn't a total lie. He reminded her of herself, in a way—they each wore their own masks, hide behind false smiles and guarded eyes. But she got the impression in his unyielding stance, his arrogant smirks, the testosterone oozing from him like the stink of sewage, that this was a man who believed in raw power and brutality. Finesse, she thought, was not his strong point. And that, she disdained.

"Like an equal. Not like an employee respects her boss," said Stane. "You've got guts. More than any woman I know."

"I'm quite sure that isn't true," said Jessamine. Behind her, the kettle began to whir as the water started to boil.

"You aren't one of those modest ones, are you?" said Stane. His eyes ran up and down her form—it wasn't sexual, but it still felt dirty, like he was eyeing an object. "Doesn't suit you."

"It isn't modesty," she said. "Miss Potts, for example."

"Pepper?" Stane looked honestly caught off-guard by that. "Pepper's a lovely woman and she's got a bit of spine but… she's delicate."

Jessamine eyed him but refrained from replying. Instead, she turned again, taking the kettle off and pouring the hot water into the two cups. She added his two sugars, as he'd requested, and stirred it in with the tea leaves. "Here you go," she said, returning to her desk. She drew up another chair, seating herself comfortably. "Again, Obadiah, what can I do for you?"

Stane blinked, the thoughtful look he'd worn since she'd mentioned Potts falling away. "Ah… yes, I had an offer."

"Oh?"

"A job offer," he clarified. "As my personal assistant."

Jessamine hummed, sipping her tea. "Why me?"

"Like I said, you're different," said Stane with another one of his smirks. He wore it well, charmingly even. The edge of arrogance in it probably made it all the more appealing to some. "I want a woman who doesn't flinch by my side. You look like you've got what it takes. And I did ask around about you, you know. I hear you're efficient." He leaned forward, his dark eyes intense. "You're wasted here, Jess. What do you do here? File paperwork no one cares about? Manage documents Tony used to shit on? A talented woman like you deserves more."

She met his gaze, unwavering. He painted a pretty speech. An ambitious woman would have been tempted, at the very least.

Jessamine took another draught of her tea. "And if I told you I was happy here?"

"I guess I would be very disappointed," said Stane with a frown. "You'd have power, luxury and money. Imagine—you'd be second to the CEO and co-owner of Stark Industries. That opens all kinds of doors."

"For now," said Jessamine. "When Mr Stark returns, I assume he will resume his role within the company. Though, I imagine he has always been CEO in name only."

"You didn't strike me as an optimist," said Stane. He gave a deep sigh, an air of sadness and grief weighing on him. "I don't think Tony is coming back. It's been almost two months."

"I don't like Mr Stark very much," said Jessamine, "but doubtless, he is a resourceful man. He will find his way back; of that I'm certain." The conviction in her voice was clear, and she saw that it affected Stane. The grief he wore gave way to uncertainty—and a troubled expression.

She wondered if, perhaps, there was more to Stark's incident in Afghanistan than she'd thought. It was not illogical, for what she glimpsed of his character was, thus far, somewhat unsavoury.

"Yes, he is resourceful, isn't he?" muttered Stane, almost under his breath. His expression soured for a brief moment.

She noticed his use of tense.

Stane shook his head. His genial mask slid back on easily. "Well, let's hope you're right."

"I'll think about your offer," said Jessamine, though she already knew what her answer would be. "Was there anything else, Obadiah?"

"Good girl," he said quietly. He finished his cup in three large gulps. "And good tea. That was all, I believe. You'll get back to me soon? I want an answer before the start of next week, at least."

"Of course."

Stane stood, brushing non-existent lint off his suit. He even bent to drop a kiss on her cheek. "I hope you make the right decision," he said with almost convincing warmth. "I'll leave you to it, then."

Jessamine watched him turn out of sight before she peered into his teacup. It was a quiet one, imparting very little to her. It only confirmed what she already knew of him.

That he was an arse.

"Crup," said Jessamine as she walked into her library, "or Kneazle?"

Pansy looked up from where she'd been slowly tapping away at her laptop using only her index fingers. Her hair was piled up in a messy bun on the top of her head, hanging in limp strands around her face. One of it clung to her cheek and Jessamine glimpsed the slightly reflective sheen of dried drool on the side of Pansy's mouth. Jessamine pressed her lips together, trying not to smile. "Crup," replied Pansy. "How was work?"

"Stane offered me a position as his personal assistant," she said. "Otherwise, the only interesting highlight of an uninteresting day is that I'm quite sure Stane wants Stark dead."

"Dead?" Pansy perked up. "That does sound interesting."

"I didn't See anything, but I didn't really need to; it's obvious that Stane is not interested in Stark's return. I suspect he knows exactly where Stark is, too," said Jessamine as she placed a shopping bag on the desk. From within, she withdrew a stuffed toy. It was a puppy with fluffy, golden fur and little buttons for eyes. "Quite cute, don't you think?" she said, glancing at Pansy.

"I suppose," she said slowly. "Why did you buy toys? Is this a new Weasley product?"

"It's a perfectly normal, perfectly Muggle stuffed toy," said Jessamine, picking up the dog. "Would you prefer an obedient or playful Crup?"

Pansy stared at her like she'd sprouted two noses and a third eye.

"Come now," said Jessamine with a roll of her eyes. "This is _not_ the strangest thing you've seen me do."

"True. There was that time I caught you trying to kiss a frog statue," said her friend.

Jessamine coughed delicately. "You know very well there was a good reason for that… Anyway, obedient or playful?"

"Obedient," said Pansy, though she still sounded hesitant. "Playful puppies yap away and follow you around and do nothing. It's irritating."

"You're a little drop of sunshine, aren't you?" muttered Jessamine as she gathered her magic at her fingertips. She'd not tried this since the trip to The Pixie's Burrow; she wondered how far she could push this.

"I can't believe you're telling me that, _Mistress_ ," muttered Pansy. "What are you doing?"

Jessamine narrowed her eyes in focus, moulding the little spark of life she held between her fingers, threading it with whispers of loyalty and obedience and protectiveness. When it was ready, she shot it into the puppy's chest of synthetic fur. "Trying something."

"What are you trying to—is it moving?" Pansy stared at the toy that was twitching in Jessamine's hands. Its tail thumped once. Then twice. Soon, it was wagging away, and the puppy's tongue lolled out to the side as its head swivelled around inquisitively. "Alright, why are you Animating stuffed toys, then?"

"This, dear Pansy," said Jessamine, setting the puppy down on the table, "is not quite Animation." The puppy ran around, sniffing at the piles of books and parchment, knocking over an inkwell in the process.

"Oh, for Merlin's—" Pansy hurried to fix up the mess. "I think I know what Animation looks like!"

Jessamine shrugged. "Finite it then, if you're so certain."

"I will," said Pansy, tossing a glare over her shoulder. "The beast is eating our research, Jessamine! _Eating._ " Sure enough, the little puppy was happily chewing away on a particularly old-looking book, though with no teeth—and, indeed, no throat—it was making little progress. " _Finite incantatem_."

Jessamine listened idly to the sound of a toothless dog chewing away on wet paper.

" _Finite incantatem_ ," tried Pansy again, this time with more strength.

Chomp. Squelch. Chomp.

"Damn you."

"Really, after all these years, one would've thought you'd have more sense than to doubt me," chided Jessamine.

"What did you do to it then? Come on, I know you want to tell me," said Pansy with a sigh. She tried to guide the puppy away from the books. It whined at her. "Shut up, you."

"Well, I'm not certain either, to be honest," admitted Jessamine. "It's sort of like soul magic—except there is no real soul in the toy."

Pansy eyed the dog. "But there's _something_ in it?"

"Something like a soul," nodded Jessamine. "An imitation of one, almost. It should behave, for all intents and purposes, like a dog. It should have its own personality, its own likes and dislikes. It'll be more life-like than anything that can be achieved through Animation—but still, not truly alive."

"That's… unnerving," said Pansy as she watched the dog wag its tail, tongue hanging out of its mouth as he looked up adoringly at her.

"It should listen to you too," added Jessamine. "Try asking it to do something."

" _Sit_."

The puppy made a curious noise, tilting its head to the side.

Pansy rolled her eyes. "You were saying?"

"Perhaps it doesn't understand," said Jessamine thoughtfully. "That'll be up to you to train him, I suppose. He's yours now."

" _What?_ "


	9. 9: Awkward Introductions

**[A/N]:** **I'm aiming to increase the length of my chapters. Currently, I'm averaging around 2k per chapter - this chapter is actually a little longer, at 2.5k. I'm aiming for at least 3k. I can never understand how some people bang out 6k chapters per week. It's utterly terrifying to me.**

 **Next thing, I was planning on changing Jess Wright's name, due to some confusion people have had. Then I tried to change it, and it just felt _weird_. I also had a few people (shout out to Corvus Black who found me on Reddit :3) tell me that I _shouldn't_ change it. Anyway... all in all, I've decided not to change it. **

**If anyone is still confused: Jess Wright the original is unlikely to ever return to the story except in mentions by other characters. Jessamine is only ever referred to as Jess Wright by people who don't know her true identity or if she's in public. In private with people she trusts, she prefers to be called Jessamine.**

 **Alright, that's all. Enjoy! This chapter also has a little check-up on Tony to see how he's doing...**

* * *

Jessamine sat down in her usual booth and waited. She had her phone gripped tightly in her hand; it rarely left her hand now that she'd been… promoted. The job was more demanding than she'd expected, and she was starting to understand why Pansy valued her days off so much.

Another downside that Jessamine _had_ expected was that she'd also reprised an all-too-familiar role of being the subject of speculation and rumour.

It was quite unpleasant to come into work on a Monday morning and be accused, through a poorly-concealed choice of words, of sleeping her way into her position. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—she was used to vitriol more vicious and far more skilfully delivered. Gossip about being free with her choice in bed-partners had been one of Marietta Edgecombe's favourites back in Hogwarts, especially during Jessamine's sixth year when she had had to spend hours looking through memories of Voldemort with Dumbledore.

She gave a delicate shudder at the thought. Frankly, after being suspected of carrying on with a one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old man whose balls likely reached his ankles, most rumours did little to affect her.

Gary stuck his head out from the kitchen, grinning when he saw her. Jessamine waved back as he began to make his way to her.

Her phone rang, and in less than a blink, she answered it. "Jess Wright," she said.

 _Sorry_ , she mouthed at Gary, who had just reached her table. Stane's voice came through the phone, brusque and slightly distorted. "Jess. Fantastic, you're there… Are you on your lunch break now?"

"Yes."

"Great, great," said Stane. He sounded distracted. "While you're out, I need you to pick up my dry cleaning." Jessamine pulled out her notebook quickly, jotting down the words as he spoke. "And get me some lunch—anything light and healthy—then I want you to set up an appointment with Justin Hammer; he's been snooping around Stark Industries again… Oh, and my daughter is coming into town, so I need a possum."

Jessamine paused. "A possum?"

"Yes."

"Alive or dead?"

Now it was Stane who paused. "Alive; what would I do with a dead possum? Reserve a table for two at a nice restaurant too."

With that, he hung up. Jessamine shook her head, wondering why in Merlin's name he would need a possum for his daughter.

"How's the job?" asked Gary with a sympathetic smile.

"I was promoted," she told him.

"Ah, moving up in the ranks of the world," said Gary. "Congratulations. A free lunch to celebrate, then?"

"Oh no, I couldn't," said Jessamine, scanning the diner's entrance. "I'm actually waiting on a friend… ah, there she is."

Pansy strolled through the doors, appropriately dressed in a pale, long-sleeved dress with a white cardigan. Her hair was tied back into a sleek ponytail and she had a pair of large sunglasses sat atop her short nose. She looked perfectly elegant—in a completely Muggle fashion. She spotted Jessamine and started towards her.

Jessamine blinked.

Merlin's beard. Was that a… it was.

Pansy threw herself into the booth, not sparing Gary a glance. "Jessamine, _there_ you are," she twittered, lugging a massive _suitcase_ behind her. It was twice as wide as Pansy and knocked into chairs and tables everywhere, not to mention running over quite a few feet, as it stumbled along. It was also an eye-watering shade of neon green. "It was such a hassle to come all the way down here, and goodness, I can't believe Muggles carry things like this around everywhere—"

"Pansy, darling," interrupted Jessamine smoothly, "this is Gary. Gary, this is my friend, Pansy."

Pansy peered up at Gary. She tilted her head. Then she took off her sunglasses. " _You're_ Gary?"

Jessamine stepped down hard on Pansy's foot.

"I mean, of course you're Gary," said the twit hastily. "Pleasure—I've heard so much about you. All good things, of course, don't worry."

"Have you?" said Gary, far too polite to comment on the strange greeting. "I'm flattered Jess here thinks so kindly of me. Good to meet you too… Did you just get in from the UK?"

Pansy stared at him, a baffled expression drawn across her face.

"Yes, she has," Jessamine hastily replied for her. "Awful flight, wasn't it, Pansy?"

"Oh yes," said Pansy, cottoning on. "Terrible, er, flight. We even crashed."

Gary's eyes widened to the size of golf balls. "You _crashed_?"

"Of course they didn't crash," said Jessamine hastily, grinding her foot down on Pansy's harder. "My friend here is just prone to exaggeration." She smiled at Pansy as sweetly as possible. Pansy shuddered. "Aren't you, darling?"

"Er, yes," said Pansy, nodding vigorously. "I exaggerate all the time."

"I… see," said Gary. He looked increasingly wary of Pansy, as though he was concerned for her sanity. "Well, uh… I'll let you look at the menu first, shall I? Oh, and if you could just try to keep your suitcase out of the aisle…"

He walked away then, and if his pace was a little faster than usual, Jessamine opted to direct her attention to putting up her privacy charms instead. The sooner she could get them up, the better.

"What an odd little man," said Pansy. "Are you sure you're right about him? He seems a bit slow, the poor Muggle."

Jessamine pinched the bridge of her nose. She took a deep breath. Then another. "I see you added a little accessory to the clothes I set out for you this morning."

"Well, yes—honestly, Jessamine, it's your fault," said Pansy with a haughty sniff. "I read online that a bag is a must for women when leaving the house; I hardly wanted to stand out by not having one."

"Darling, you stood out regardless," said Jessamine with a shake of her head. "Honestly, you're just as bad as Ron when it comes to this."

"As _Weasley_?" said Pansy, affronted.

"You might even be worse, actually," said Jessamine, considering. "At least Ronald has Hermione."

Pansy narrowed her eyes, her lips pursing. Good. That was her expression of offended determination; she'd work twice as hard to blend in as a Muggle now. "I know what you're doing," warned Pansy. Jessamine shrugged, free of any shame. "But I do have something more important to tell you—here." She placed a piece of parchment on the table, and Jessamine recognised the looping script in an instant. "It's from Granger," added Pansy needlessly.

Jessamine scanned the letter. It was addressed to Pansy, but it was clear that Hermione was at least half-certain that Pansy knew perfectly well where Jessamine was and that Jessamine would end up reading the letter too.

"So she found Sally Matheson," she mused. "She certainly hasn't lost her touch; she was faster than I'd expected, actually."

"If you mean she's still an irritating bint, then yes, she certainly hasn't lost her touch. Don't they have salads here?" complained Pansy, looking up from the menu.

Jessamine sighed. "It's on the next page, darling."

Pansy waved a dismissive hand. "I also received another letter," she said, the space between her brows tightening as she stared at Jessamine. "It was most interesting, actually. It was from someone I hadn't heard from in quite a while: Dennis Creevey."

"Wonderful," said Jessamine, fighting a smile. "I'd been hoping to hear from him."

"Jessamine," said Pansy, leaning forward, a dangerous glint in her eyes, "why is Dennis _bloody_ Creevey sending me an owl that says, 'Yes, of course, I'll be in LA in two days'?" Her voice twisted into a bad imitation of Dennis Creevey which sounded a little like a hummingbird if it could speak.

"Two days," said Jessamine, her eyebrows rising. "He's quick, isn't he? I'll have to prepare a guest room for him then."

"A guest room?" screeched Pansy. If not for Jessamine's privacy charms, the sound might have shattered windows. "He's _not_ staying with us, Jessamine—the little beast kept chattering on about how excited he was in his letter! He sounded like he was about to wet himself."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," said Jessamine. "He's perfectly lovely if a little… enthusiastic."

"I refuse," said Pansy, her chin jutting out defiantly. "If he's staying, I'll simply have to find a hotel room. I refuse to have to hear his little chipmunk voice chatter on about how _amazing_ you are, and how _delighted_ he is that you're letting him in on your _cool_ plans."

Jessamine pursed her lips, her amusement leaving her in an instant. "You misunderstand me, Pansy," she said, her voice a calm that seemed to cut into Pansy, for she flinched as though struck. "Dennis is staying with us, as are you. I'm not giving you an option—this is a statement of fact."

"But _why_?" asked Pansy, sounding dangerously close to a whine.

"Because Dennis is rather better with computers than you and I," said Jessamine with a roll of her eyes. Pansy would give in, of course, but she'd make a show of it before she did. "He's quite a talented hacker too."

"Hacker?"

Jessamine sighed again. "And that, Pansy, is precisely why I asked Dennis to come."

* * *

Tony had been in here for exactly seventy-five days—well, that was what Yinsen told him anyway. He kept track of time better.

It was almost done. The suit was something from a daydream—a child's daydream. Wouldn't it be cool, six-year-old Tony had thought, to have a suit that could beat up the bad guys? Anyone who'd wear it would be a superhero. He'd dismissed it as he'd grown older. Superheroes didn't exist; they were a fantasy.

But when he'd woken in this godforsaken cave with metal in his chest and an entire terrorist organisation between him and freedom, Tony knew he'd have to make that kid's dream a reality. He could have built himself the biggest gun ever made and he'd be dead from a single, well-aimed bullet—and the Ten Rings, he'd seen to his bitter regret, had plenty of those.

No, this was his only ticket out. His and Yinsen's.

He glanced at his companion. They had a strange relationship; it was difficult to describe. Being trapped in a cell together for two months had a way of bonding people together in ways stronger than friendship. They didn't talk much, not really, but Yinsen had a talent for piercing straight into the heart of it through a few sentences.

 _And you, Stark?_

 _…_ _Nothing._

 _No… so you are a man who has everything, and nothing._

The description fit more than Tony liked to admit. The only people he had in his life—the constants he could trust to be there—were Pepper, Rhodey and Obadiah. Maybe when he got back, he'd ask someone out on a real date. Not just someone to sleep with for a night.

He recalled the new girl, Jess Wright. Maybe if he asked her out properly this time, seriously, she'd say yes. She was pretty enough, and he liked that she didn't fall to pieces with just a few words from him. He could see where things would go; maybe he'd have someone to call family then.

Tony shook his head, sliding his goggles back on. It was just stray thoughts in a moment of weakness. If he was being honest with himself, he didn't think he'd settle down and have a white-picket fence life with anybody. He refocused his attention on the metal pieces in front of him. The awkward breastplate he was making was a crude thing; just a few bits of scrap metal sealed together with a high-powered blowtorch.

But he wasn't making this to last. He just needed one shot.

The sound of the door slot sliding screeched over the hissing blast of the blowtorch. Tony looked up sharply, releasing his hold on the tool. A man's voice shouted out in a foreign language. He glanced at Yinsen, who looked grim.

Tony knew the drill by now. Hands behind his head, step away from the workbenches. One wrong move and their captors might get a bit too trigger-happy. The metal door swung open, and Tony's eyes narrowed. There were a lot of men entering, their rifles ready in their hands. Too many men.

Then the men parted, settling into two columns. Another man walked through—Tony stiffened. That was Raza, he remembered Yinsen telling him. The leader of the Ten Rings.

He'd only seen him from a distance before. Close up, Raza didn't seem like much. Not very tall, nor very striking, save for the hooked nose that drooped down to the top of his thin lips. But he walked with a swagger, beady eyes surveying the workroom. Tony tried to remember if they'd left anything incriminating in the open.

Except, everything in the damn workroom was incriminating. Anyone with half a brain could see that they weren't building a Jericho. It was only lucky that, so far, their handlers were as dumb as bricks when it came to technology.

But somehow, with dread curdling in his insides, Tony didn't think Raza was the same.

Raza's dark eyes settled on him. "Relax," he said. A refined accent and an almost gentle voice. It was a discrepancy.

Tony looked to Yinsen, who gave him a nod. It wasn't a reassuring nod; his friend looked pale and sweaty. Raza stepped closer to him, reaching out to push Tony's shirt aside and peer at the glowing blue light in his chest. Admiration gleamed in his eyes, his lips curling up into a greedy smile. "The bow and arrow," said Raza, "once was the pinnacle of weapons technology."

The small part of Tony that wasn't panicking thought snidely, _Another pretentious speech from a pretentious jackass._

"It allowed the great Genghis Khan to rule from the Pacific to the Ukraine," continued Raza, but Tony didn't pay the rest much attention. He watched the leader wander around the workshop, pushing aside little bits of metal, checking the tabletops. Tony knew he suspected then.

The man continued on to the table behind Tony, still speaking. Tony's blood pounded in his ears as he watched Raza pick up the plans for the suit. He cursed himself; why the fuck hadn't he thought of keeping them somewhere else?

He shut his eyes briefly. Did Raza realise? Did he know what those plans were for? "But today… whoever holds the latest Stark weapons rules these lands," said Raza, his voice softening. Tony watched him warily. In the dim light, Raza's eyes seemed to almost glimmer. "And soon, it will be my turn."

Raza let the papers drop back onto the table, but Tony didn't allow himself the luxury of thinking that would be it.

And he was right; Raza came to a stop in front of Tony. For the first time, his eyes bore into Tony's, and it took more than he liked to admit not to flinch away. Raza's was a cold gaze. He looked at Tony like he was looking at an asset—not a human. He looked at Tony like Tony looked at a complex mathematical problem. To be broken down, analysed and solved. And once that was done, tossed aside in favour of another problem.

Tony had been called a sociopath more than once, but those people had clearly never met Raza.

He would remember those eyes, he knew then. And he did. He remembered them even after Raza left with his men. He remembered them as he looked down at Yinsen, who shook with relief with his cheek still pressed against the anvil's metal. He remembered them years later, when he stared at the New York skyline, one of the strongest men on Earth and still, weak when he remembered those eyes.

The eyes of a predator.


	10. 10: Homecoming

**[A/N]: Again, sorry for the lateness. My first exam is in 4 days x.x There possibly won't be an update next week because of that.**

 **Dennis, oddly enough, turned out a bit different from how I pictured him when I wrote the previous chapter. His relationship with Jessamine also seems to have a mind of its own, becoming a kind of sibling/platonic relationship that I didn't really expect when I first decided to bring Dennis into the story.**

 **Well, I don't have any other announcements to make... so thanks for reviewing, following and favouriting! All reviewers have been really kind so far, which is great and a bit unbelievable xD The story has reached 1.2k follows too, which is just... mind-blowing. After my exams, I'll see what I can do to celebrate/thank you guys for all the support that the story has received :) So keep an eye out around the end of June, because that is when my poor, tortured soul will finally know freedom.**

 **At least for a month before uni kicks in again, the sadistic bitch.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **EDIT: I drew up a cover for the story while I was listening to my lectures. Not sure how much of the lectures I managed to take in, but I did manage to finish the new cover up. It's not some kind of awe-inspiring masterpiece, but I'm pretty happy with it considering how crap I am at digital painting/drawing. If anyone would like to take a closer look at it, I'm putting the DeviantArt link on my profile. Let me know what you think!**

* * *

"I'm going to kill you," hissed Pansy as they stood in the foyer of Jessamine's home.

"You say that nearly every day, and yet, here I am, still standing," said Jessamine, an amused smile on her lips. She checked her watch; it was five past ten in the morning, which meant that Dennis was, unsurprisingly, late.

"If he talks to me, I'll twist his freckles off his face."

"Don't be silly," she replied. "Of course he's going to talk to you, and of course you aren't going to do anything to him."

"He's worse than Puppis," said Pansy under her breath. Jessamine glanced down at little Puppis, her upbeat experiment who was scratching at non-existent fleas in his synthetic fur. As though sensing her gaze, Puppis looked up at her, blinking his button eyes with a somehow questioning look.

The fireplace glowed green then, the small embers amidst the ashes flaring into a roaring flame. Jessamine straightened. "Ah, here he is. Chin up, darling, he adores you so."

"I hope he drools on you."

"Pansy, if he drools on anyone, it's going to be you," said Jessamine with a small smirk, just as a jumbled mess of coats, scarves, suitcase and human was spat out of the fireplace, slamming face-first into the pristine carpet.

The lump on the floor groaned. "Merlin, that hurt…" Puppis trotted forwards, tail wagging eagerly as he sniffed at the newcomer. A loud yip let it be known that the newcomer was accepted, much to Pansy's displeasure. "A dog…?"

Jessamine waved her hand, clearing the soot and ash from his clothes. A head lifted, with a mop of light brown curls sat in a messy heap atop it.

"Merlin's beard," said Dennis Creevey. He blinked, blue eyes staring owlishly around. His skin was splotched red beneath dark clusters of freckles, and his face seemed slimmer and longer than Jessamine last remembered. "This place looks fantastic." His gaze landed on Jessamine and Pansy. He flushed, scrambling to stand. "Pansy, er, hello. I didn't expect you to be here."

"No, why would I be?" asked Pansy sarcastically. "I was only the one to reply to your owl, after all."

His blush deepened. "Right. Bit foolish of me, isn't it?" said Dennis with a nervous chuckle. He glanced at Jessamine. "Who's she?"

Jessamine arched an eyebrow. "Don't you recognise me, dear?"

Dennis only looked more confused.

"After the years we spent together as Housemates and colleagues, you still do not recognise me," she said, shaking her head. "It's Jessamine."

" _Oh_ ," said Dennis. "You look different."

"Of course she looks different, you daft little creature," snapped Pansy. "You didn't expect her to walk around looking like Jessamine Potter when half the world is looking for her, did you?"

"Well, no," said Dennis. His eyes roved over Jessamine's face, wide and surprised. "Is it Polyjuice?"

"No," said Jessamine before Pansy could insert more snide remarks. "A combination of glamour spells and potions."

"Cool," he breathed, leaning in to get a better look.

Pansy sniffed, scooping up Puppis who was sitting at Dennis's feet. "I'm going up to the library," she said, turning on her heel.

"Oh—bye, Pansy! It was great seeing you again," called Dennis after her. "I'll, um, see you later, I suppose."

Unsurprisingly, there was no reply from Pansy, though Puppis did offer a happy bark. Jessamine shook her head as she watched her old friend go, bare feet vanishing up the steps. She turned back to Dennis. He was staring at the stairs too, looking a bit disappointed, his lower lip jutting out in a small pout.

"Come on, dear," sighed Jessamine. "Let's have a chat, shall we? It's been quite a while since we last saw each other… A year, no?"

Dennis blinked, a warm smile curving his lips. He followed her into the kitchen, settling down on the bar stool. It was always amusing to see how Pansy's presence altered his body language. With most people Jessamine had seen him with, he had a relaxed, laid-back demeanour, a self-assured enthusiasm that shone from him. Then bring Pansy into the room and he's suddenly a stuttering mess. "Almost exactly one year, I think."

"Yes, it was the April of last year, wasn't it?" She pulled out two clean mugs, setting the water to boil with a flick of her finger. "Earl Grey with a dash of milk and three sugars, if I remember correctly."

Dennis nodded with a small smile. "It was the night of the… War Ceremony," he said with reluctance. "It's almost been a decade—can you believe it?"

"Yes, actually," said Jessamine. "How is your father?"

"He's… getting by," he replied. "We went to visit Colin's grave yesterday with all the others. I think it hit Dad a bit hard because I'd just told him I was moving to the States. He wasn't very happy that you'd asked me to come, to be honest." Dennis glanced at her, uncomfortable. "I don't mean anything against you, of course. I travelled all the time for the Ministry, and he didn't have a problem with it. Moving just sounds a bit more permanent, I suppose."

"We can set up a Portkey for you easily," offered Jessamine.

A hopeful gleam entered his eye. "You sure?"

"Of course." She cracked a smile. "It's easier than you think, making Portkeys."

Dennis rolled his eyes. "I know _you_ can do it," he said. "And some people aren't so comfortable breaking the law. You know the one that says you can't make Portkeys without Ministry approval?"

"Never heard of it," said Jessamine with feigned confusion. "But really, Dennis, if you weren't comfortable breaking the law, why in the name of Merlin are you working for me?"

He laughed, a short burst of sound. "Point taken. But seriously," he added, blue eyes finding hers. "Thanks."

She waved him off. "It's hardly an inconvenience."

Dennis gave her a lopsided grin just as the kettle came to a boil. Jessamine turned to attend to it. "Anyway," he said as she poured the water into their mugs, "how have you been? When we saw each other in May, I didn't think that in a year's time, you'd be halfway across the world with most everyone convinced you're dead."

"I admit, I didn't think I'd be here either," said Jessamine with a sigh. "I'm not sure how much Pansy told you in her letter—not much at all, if I know her as well as I think I do—but I've taken up a position at Stark Industries."

Dennis choked on his mouthful of tea. "You're joking. _The_ Stark Industries?"

She nodded. "I took up a low-level administrative position about… two months ago, I'd say. Just before Stark's kidnapping—I'm sure you heard about that."

"'Course I did," said Dennis. Then he paused. "You didn't…"

"No," she said with a roll of her eyes. "Why on earth would I kidnap Tony Stark?"

"Why on earth would you take a job at Stark Industries?" he countered. "You're richer than… well, Tony Stark."

"Actually, I'm not," said Jessamine. "And the job is… an investment of sorts. I've been told that it might turn out to be a very interesting one, though I've yet to see any, ah, return."

Dennis gave her a confused look, but did not press her on the matter. He knew her well enough to know that if she wanted to tell him of her exact reasons, she would simply do so, and not beat around the bush with vague, cryptic statements. And that if she _was_ being vague and cryptic, no amount of questions and probing would offer much in the way of answers. Only some unpleasant hexes. "You're still working at Stark Industries, I guess?"

"Oh yes. I was even promoted," she replied, raising her mug in a mock-toast. "Obadiah Stane's personal assistant."

Dennis snickered. "I can't imagine you taking orders very well."

"I'll have you know I'm quite good at my job."

He eyed her carefully, studying her profile for a long moment. Then he smirked. "You want to throttle him, don't you? You look different, but your eyebrow still twitches when you think of something infuriating."

Jessamine made a mental note of that tell. She would have to fix it. "It could be worse."

"Yeah?"

"I could be Stark's personal assistant," she said with a small shudder.

Dennis snorted. He finished off his cup of tea in two big gulps and pushed it to her. "Do you mind, boss? You haven't given me a reading for five years now."

Jessamine peered into the cup, staring at the sodden dregs that clung to the bottom. A twining path of white was visible, the tea leaves splitting in half to reveal the porcelain. Pilgrimage? Or an adventure. The leaves were scattered in aberrant lumps, with no clear pattern in their layout, suggesting a chaotic future. Terribly vague and not very informative—then again, those were the best kinds of futures, for it meant that he would have a relatively safe path ahead of him. Safe, at least, from the strings of fate.

She glanced up at Dennis, who looked a little nervous at how long she was taking. Suppressing a smirk, Jessamine affected a wide-eyed, slack-jawed look of horror and shock. He flinched. "I see a terrible danger," she whispered, reaching out to latch onto Dennis's arm. "My boy… you have _the Grim_."

Dennis's anxiety vanished in an instant, and he looked exasperated. "I shake in my boots," he said. Then he sighed. "Every single time."

Jessamine chuckled as she stood, straightening her clothes. She leaned over the kitchen counter and patted him on the cheek. "I can't help it, darling," she said. "You look so frightened every time. It makes you terribly easy to tease."

"Sure," said Dennis with a scowl. But the twitch of his lip gave him away. "Right then. Where should I set up?"

"Your room is on the third floor, first door on the left," informed Jessamine. "The library is on the second floor—come down after you've settled in."

Dennis nodded, picking up his luggage easily. Jessamine followed him out of the kitchen. Then, with a hint of hesitance, she pressed a hand on his arm. He paused, turning to look at her. For a long moment, Jessamine did not say anything; she simply looked at his face, soaking in the boyish cheeks, the deep laugh lines that ran from his long nose to his chin. She remembered Colin's face, still in death, one side charred and blackened from Fiendfyre.

"It's good to see that you have been well, Dennis," she said finally. "Thank you for coming."

He smiled back, but the expression didn't quite touch his eyes. He tried for a smile. "It's good to see you too, Jessamine."

She pulled away from him, and ascended the stairs. With each step, Jessamine pretended she couldn't feel his gaze boring into her back, carefully kept her magic leashed, so she would not know the sour taste of his worry and confusion.

* * *

Dry.

The sand gave way beneath Tony's feet easily, his steps sinking and sliding against the loose grains. There was sand in his worn shoes. Sweat drenching his back. The desert smelled like something was burning. Or maybe that was the Ten Rings' camp that he'd set on fire a few miles back.

He wasn't sure how much further he could walk anymore. It was just the sound of his breathing, the pounding of his heartbeat in his ears, the gust of wind that smothered his eyes with dust.

And an odd hum. Was that his arc reactor in his chest? But no, this noise was distant. Not the barely audible, higher-pitched whine of the machine in his chest but a deeper, rhythmic, thumping noise. Like… like…

Helicopters.

His head snapped up. The sun burned in his eyes, but he didn't care. The horizon was the crests and valleys of sand dunes. Everything was quiet.

Then, like bursts of hope shooting into existence, helicopters zoomed over from behind him. Tony laughed, loud and exhilarated. The joy bloomed in him, almost painful. He knew those helicopters. Probably helped equip quite a few of them. American Air Force.

Tony fell to his knees.

He was going home.


	11. 11: Absence

**[A/N]: Holy crap, this is a long chapter. Well, not really, relative to other fics, but 3k (3135, to be exact) is a good chunk of story for me. I hope I can maintain 3k per week though.**

 **Most of this chapter was actually written over the course of the last three days or so. Before that, I had something completely different, but I scrapped it last minute and wrote this up instead. It's a bit of a hot mess, but so is this entire story xD I'm writing on the fly here, so that's kind of a given.**

 **I've gotten a few questions about pairings in the reviews. I dropped a big hint a few chapters back, but I'll say it a bit more explicitly now: this fic is probably going to be Thor/Jessamine. But romance will not be the focus of the story (because I suck at writing romance).**

 **Anyway, I'll let you guys continue to the story now. Enjoy, and thanks for reading, reviewing, favouriting/following and so on :)**

* * *

 _Jessamine found herself at King's Cross Station. A black, metal plate proclaimed in block letters: PLATFORM 9 3/4. The platform was devoid of people, and when she stepped forward, she could hear the tap of the heel of her shoe echoing. The way ahead was shrouded in fog, bathing the place in an eerie mist._

 _She knew where she was going. Her feet took her there with little thought. Three benches from the first one she'd passed, left end next to a small hole in the pavement that was shaped like a star. She sank into the seat and waited._

 _The hole existed too in reality. She'd checked before, stopping by at the platform on September 1_ _st_ _. She'd braved the crowds of reporters, smiled at the departing students, shook hands with grateful parents. She'd waded through the throng of people, and finally found the bench. And when she'd looked down, she'd seen the star-shaped dent._

 _She wondered if this place was something constructed, taken from reality, or whether it was entirely in her head and it had been a detail that she'd remembered but hadn't realised she had._

 _"_ _Does it matter?"_

 _Jessamine sighed, tipping her head back. A woman stood before her, naked. Her skin was unnaturally pale and so smooth that the light seemed to almost bounce off it like a mirror. Wisps of dark hair floated around her bare shoulders, ethereal and formless. Her eyes were shut, but she did not need any guidance as she sat down next to Jessamine._

 _"_ _A curious thought," said Jessamine. "Unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but knowledge provides comfort in the face of endless unknown."_

 _"_ _Even such small, meaningless crumbs of knowledge?" The woman's voice was bland and toneless. It was dreamy—not like Luna's, which gave the impression of absent-mindedness, but in a way that seemed almost as though she was still asleep. As though it was only a slither of her consciousness speaking to Jessamine now, rather than the whole._

 _"_ _Even then," replied Jessamine. "Why have you brought me here?"_

 _"_ _To offer more knowledge," said the woman, "and advice."_

 _Jessamine narrowed her eyes. "How generous."_

 _"_ _It is hardly generosity when a gift is offered to oneself." The woman's eyes flickered open, only for a brief fraction of a moment, but the flash of green was unmistakeable._

 _"_ _You are not me," said Jessamine, the skin around her lips drawing tight._

 _"_ _You still resist the truth," sighed the woman. "Perhaps one day you will see that it is not so terrible—indeed, that you and I were one since the beginning, and that it is not the end you fear it is."_

 _"_ _I feel you growing within me. I feel the touch of your soul, weaving itself into mine," said Jessamine. There was a sound in her voice that she hated—not quite vulnerable, but too close for comfort. "More and more each day."_

 _The woman's touch was cold like a corpse's. She ran a thumb down Jessamine's cheek, and Jessamine loathed still more the comfort she drew from the woman's gesture. "You are still so young," said the woman quietly. Her voice warmed a touch, a thrum of sympathy, perhaps even sorrow, running beneath it. "You will understand soon, I think."_

 _Jessamine's lips quirked into a humourless smile. "The last time you told me something would happen 'soon', it took more than ten years."_

 _"_ _Ten years is not so long a time."_

 _"_ _Almost half my life."_

 _"_ _For now," said the woman. She let her hand fall. "One day, it will pass in the blink of an eye, and you will realise then how permanent your existence is."_

 _The thought discomforted Jessamine, more than she liked to admit. She'd made her peace with death once, and she wondered now if perhaps she'd welcomed it too eagerly, that she now feared immortality more. "Your gift, then?"_

 _"_ _Ah yes. I've come to speak to you of Earth's Heroes. One has already woken, but he requires some time yet," said the woman. "Tony Stark will be the first to come into his own, and then, it will begin."_

 _"_ _And my role?"_

 _"_ _Observe. Help, if you see fit. But remember—"_

 _"_ _Not more than truly necessary."_

 _The woman nodded. "We will be strong enough soon to affect the multiverse more directly," she said. "But for now, patience is required. Patience and subtlety."_

 _"_ _I understand," said Jessamine with a sigh._

 _"_ _Good. Observe him for a few months; when he reveals the truth, it will be time for you to move on then," said the woman. She paused, then spoke again, "Your curious mortal, Gary."_

 _"_ _What of him?" She tried to suppress the interest in her voice, though there was hardly a point—the woman could always sense Jessamine's inner thoughts, no matter how well she hid them and how strong her Occlumency._

 _"_ _He has not been entirely truthful with you," said the woman. "You ought to look more deeply into his past."_

 _"_ _But I have," said Jessamine. "He speaks the truth."_

 _"_ _There are things, child, that even he has forgotten." The woman stood. "Secrets locked away in his soul, that you can draw out if you are careful enough." She bent down before Jessamine, her breasts swaying. The movement might have been enticing, but the thought that this was her body the woman was using made it too odd a notion to invite. "Now…_

 _"_ _Wake."_

Jessamine woke with a mind clear from the weight of sleep. It had been a strange sensation the first few times she'd had experienced her… visions, but she had grown used to it now. She reached first for her wand.

Gently she touched the Elder Wand's tip to her temple. With care and precision, she drew out the memory of her vision. It felt as real as a true memory in her mind, but time would dull that, as it did all memories.

Her phone rang just as she slipped the wispy, silver tendrils of her memory into a Conjured vial. She picked up the phone as she tucked the vial safely away in a warded drawer. "Jess Wright," she said, glancing at her clock. It was six in the morning.

"Can you come in early?" asked Stane. He sounded alert, slightly breathless as though he was in a rush. She could hear the sound of traffic in the distant background.

"I can be there in twenty minutes."

"Make it ten."

He hung up, and Jessamine huffed, falling back onto the bed. Her watch, laid on her nightstand, ticked on in an echoing rhythm.

 _Soon_ , breathed Death in her ear.

* * *

"—the press is crowding the entrance—"

"—Stark at the airport—"

"—get a statement ready— "

"—going to the hospital—"

Jessamine shut the door behind her, cutting off the frantic chatter. Stane was behind his desk. Despite the early hour, he grasped a glass of whiskey in his hand and wore a pained, tired look in his eye. When he saw her, the expression smoothed over. "Jess," he said with a well-practiced smile. Yet there was obvious strain behind it, hidden poorly. "You heard the news, I assume?"

"It's all over the internet," she said.

"So you _have_ heard. I'm going to be busy handling the press and the board," said Stane. "You, uh, you've managed to get a possum already, yes?"

Jessamine blinked. "Of course." A lie, but a simply Transfiguration would remedy that.

"Excellent, excellent," he muttered. He lifted his glass to his lips and drained the whiskey as though it was the Elixir of Life. The liquid went down smoothly, and he poured himself another glass. "My daughter, Andrea will be at my house in about two hours. I need you to have the possum there before then; I've already told the housekeeper to expect you. Tell Andrea I won't be able to make it to lunch either—leave a note or something because I need you back here as soon as possible. And give her these"—he withdrew a couple of tickets from his jacket pocket—"that should be enough to keep her entertained."

Jessamine glanced at the tickets. Tickets to the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and another to a gala being held on the other side of town. "Wouldn't it be easier to text her?"

Stane pursed his lips, a look of contemplation flitting across his face. "Isn't that a bit cold?"

"I suppose," said Jessamine after a beat, suppressing quiet disbelief. "Shall I include an apology in the note?"

"Sure," he said absently, the flashing screen of his phone drawing his attention. He cursed under his breath. "I have to go. Couple more things," Stane rifled through his desk, "this is my statement from the PR department, but I don't like it. Tell them I want a new one that doesn't make me sound like a weeping ass."

"Of course."

"And get the HR guys to send someone up here to help. This is going to be a real shitstorm," said Stane. "Oh, and I want you back here in an hour with the new statement." Jessamine's eyes widened slightly—she would never make it if she went the Muggle way. No, it seemed she would have to cheat a little.

"Of course, Mr Stane."

It was a mark of how stressed he was that he didn't even stop to correct her use of his last name, instead striding out the door without a backward glance. Jessamine glanced down at her notepad.

PR first, she decided, hurrying after Stane. Stark Industries was a mess of people—all looking more stressed than she'd ever seen them. The phones had been ringing off the clock, just as they had been the day the news of Stark's kidnapping had broken. The PR department undoubtedly had the worst of it though. It was like a warzone in there, with people dashing from one end to another, papers scattered all over the floors, orders being shouted from across the room. There was a woman who alternated between screaming and dry sobs in the centre of it all, being spectacularly ignored by her colleagues as they worked on furiously.

The front desk was manned by one intern, who was staring at six phones before him as though they were about to leap to life and devour him. He groaned when he saw her. "What do you want?" he demanded.

"Jess Wright, Obadiah Stane's personal assistant," said Jessamine. She had to speak louder, or risk being drowned out by the screaming woman, now ranting about incompetence and idiocy. "He wants a new statement."

"A new one?" repeated the intern, his voice rising several octaves. "No, no, no, we don't have _time_ to write him a new one—what's wrong with the old one?"

"He said it made him sound like a weeping ass." She withdrew the sheet of paper, pressing it down on the tabletop. "And he wants the new draft in an hour."

" _An hour_?"

Jessamine winced—that was a full-blown shriek; any louder and he'd have shattered her eardrums. "Yes, an hour," said Jessamine, her tone frosting as her patience slipped.

"But—"

Another intern darted over. "Derek, what are you _doing_?" she hissed. "Leslie just got a phone call from Miss Potts. Tony Stark is calling for a press conference _right now_."

"Right now?" repeated Derek, his face paling to an unhealthy white pallor.

"Yes, right now. Get your ass moving!"

"But I—" He glanced at Jessamine. "But she—but—"

Jessamine's patience sizzled lower. "Get me someone competent. _Now._ "

The female intern looked over at Jessamine, as though noticing her for the first time. "Look, we're kind of busy, in case you hadn't noticed," she said, gesturing at the chaotic office.

"Why, I hadn't noticed at all. Thank you for informing me of this elusive fact," said Jessamine, her tone so dry and acerbic the girl winced. "I'm Obadiah Stane's personal assistant. I need to see your boss."

"Is it important? Because if it can wait—"

"It can't wait."

The girl drew herself up. "What is it about?" she insisted.

"Mr Stane was dissatisfied with the statement provided for him."

"It was a perfectly fine statement; Leslie wrote it up herself," said the girl.

"Maya—" hissed Derek.

"And yet Mr Stane is dissatisfied," cut in Jessamine. "He wants a new statement—one that doesn't, according to him, make him sound like a 'weeping ass'."

"Fuck," muttered Maya. Then louder, "I'll inform Leslie."

"Excellent," said Jessamine. "I will need the new draft in an hour." She paused, checking her watch. "Forty-five minutes now, actually."

"Forty-five minutes?" said the girl, her eyes widening.

"And I will return for it in forty," said Jessamine, wondering why these interns felt the need to repeat her words. She glanced at Derek. "You."

"Y-Yes," he stammered. He paled further under her gaze.

"Find a new career," she advised. "You're terrible at this."

With that, Jessamine whirled away, heading for the HR department.

* * *

With a quiet _pop_ , Jessamine appeared in a quiet corner of the street where she knew there were no cameras or prying eyes. She picked a random stone from the floor and with a wave of her wand, Transfigured it into a possum. She Conjured a cage for it, shooing it in before she walked swiftly out of the corner. Her trip to the HR department had proved fruitful, and before she'd left, she'd already seen an employee hurrying up the stairs, newly assigned to Stane's office.

She'd even spoken with Dalton Boyd, whose face had been set in a permanent scowl throughout their short conversation; he'd been displeased with her since she announced that she was being promoted and that he would have to, unfortunately, find a replacement for her a short three months after he'd hired her.

The fact that Jessamine had left her desk pristine, every file up-to-date and efficiently organised, was a cold consolation.

Jessamine found Stane's house quickly. It was a mansion, one designed with a modern look in mind. Massive windows stretched along the walls, and its exterior was a cool, unfeeling grey and white. She rang the intercom at the gates.

A face blinked into existence on the intercom screen. It was a middle-aged woman who could only be the housekeeper Stane had referred to. "Hello, how can I help you?"

"My name is Jess Wright. Mr Stane said you were informed of my arrival?"

Recognition sparked in the woman's eyes. "Of course," she said with a polite smile. "I'll let you in."

The screen darkened and Jessamine waited patiently, surveying her surroundings as she did. Stane's garden was well-maintained, clipped and trimmed to an obsessive perfection. A small fountain, a simple thing with a metal circle instead of a stone sculpture serving as its centrepiece, was centred in the courtyard, and around its base, the paved path of the driveway curved up towards the entrance.

The gate jerked into motion, sliding open with hardly a sound. Jessamine walked up to the door, which opened to reveal the woman. "Nice to meet you," she said as she stepped in. The interior was, doubtlessly, furnished by a professional interior decorator. It looked like the inside of a show house, everything greys and whites and blacks that did their best to remain inoffensive to the eye. It felt as bland and impersonal as it had looked on the outside—the few personal touches were a handful of pictures, most of a young woman who looked strikingly similar to Stane, but with a full head of hair and distinctly more feminine features.

But even those felt distant, taken by professional photographers in a studio. Posed and airbrushed.

"You can call me Sarah," the housekeeper said, interrupting Jessamine's study of Stane's home. "Mr Stane didn't say what you were here for."

"Just to drop off a few things." Jessamine lifted the cage containing her Transfigured possum.

Understanding, mingled with a faint hint of disgust, dawned on Sarah's face as she looked at the animal. "Ah." She led the way into the bathroom. "You can put it in here."

"He never told me why he wanted a possum," said Jessamine, her tone lilting upwards at the end in a probing statement.

"Andy—his daughter—got him a possum some time ago," said Sarah. "It died."

Jessamine blinked at the bald statement. "How?"

Sarah's voice turned wry. "I was away for two weeks and came home to find a rotting possum in a guest bedroom. He'd locked it in there and forgotten about it." She opened a door and gestured for Jessamine to go in. Under her breath, she added, "Damn thing tore up the room before it died too."

Jessamine opened the cage in the bathroom, and a black, moist snout inched forwards, twitching as the animal took in the new scents. She privately thought now, that perhaps Transfiguring a possum instead of getting a real one was turning out to be a better decision that she'd thought it would be.

"Would you be needing anything else?"

"I just have to leave a note for Andrea," said Jessamine. "Can I leave it with you?"

"Of course."

Jessamine withdrew a notepad and a pen. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sarah roll her eyes. "He didn't even have time to write a note himself?"

Jessamine tilted her head by way of answer. She had no interest in making excuses for her employer, no matter how superb her salary was. "Does he refer to her with a pet name?"

"Nope." Sarah's tone told Jessamine exactly what the housekeeper thought of that.

After a moment's consideration, Jessamine scribbled in a passable imitation of Stane's handwriting:

 _Andrea:_

 _I can't make it to lunch. I'll have to work late the entire week. Check the news._

 _I'm so sorry. Take these tickets and enjoy L.A. We'll catch up next time._

 _Love_

"Dad?" asked Jessamine. "Daddy? Father? Papa?"

"Dad."

Jessamine signed off with a flourish.

"Not bad," said Sarah, who was reading it over Jessamine's shoulder. "Short, to the point, and an insincere apology. You must know him quite well." There was an implication in the words and a hint of curiosity in her tone. Not an accusation, but a probing question, like a fisherman laying out bait.

Jessamine suppressed any response she had, instead folding the paper, tucking the tickets in between, before handing it off to Sarah. "Thanks," said Jessamine as though the insinuation had flown straight over her head, instead checking her watch. Ten minutes to go; she had to meet the Maya girl in five minutes. "I have to go."

"Nice to meet you," called Sarah as Jessamine hurried to the front door.

"You too."

 _Good riddance,_ thought Jessamine as the door slammed shut behind her.


	12. 12: Of Prying

**[A/N]: Oof, this chapter took a bit out of me. D** **o let me know what you guys think of the second half of the chapter. I spent a lot of time on it (even though it's quite short). So much that I'm probably a little bit too close to it now, so it's possible I've missed some things or it doesn't make as much sense as I strived for.**

 **Anyway, that's all for now. Enjoy, and thanks for reviewing!**

 **P.S. Oh, and there's an extra one hundred word long snippet at the end of the chapter, which is my promised 1k followers celebration gift. Actually, it doubles as bait to keep you guys interested in the story, but mainly, let's focus on the gift part :3**

* * *

The car drove up to the front entrance of Stark Industries at a sedate pace. A gathered crowd awaited it there, led by a smiling Obadiah Stane. He looked eager, delighted and relieved, all rolled into one. It was a far cry from the detachment and vague irritation he had displayed earlier, when all he had been concerned of was ensuring the company's good image in the aftermath of Stark's return.

He was in peak form now, donning the well-worn mask of doting, surrogate uncle to the famed Tony Stark, which Jessamine did not doubt he was loathe to use once more—not after he had come so close to being rid of Stark once and for all.

In truth, Jessamine still hadn't figured out Stane's motivations. If she hazarded a guess, she would say jealousy and greed were his primary drives. But she somehow didn't think that was quite it—there was something deeper to it, she was sure. She just didn't know what.

The welcome procession broke into applause when the car rolled to a stop. Stane darted forth as the door swung open, wrapping his arms around the figure that rose from within. It was only when he moved away that Jessamine saw Stark clearly.

The first thing she noticed was his battered appearance—dishevelled hair, cuts across his face and an arm in a sling. He had come straight from the airport, she had heard, skipping a trip to the hospital entirely. His injuries had evidently been treated on the flight, but she thought he must be in a bit of pain regardless. Still, that was the extent of his injuries—he seemed well-fed enough, and did not seem to be in want of any missing body parts.

Indeed, Stark stepped forward with ease, ignoring Stane's arm half-extended as though to catch him if he should fall—an unnecessary safeguard. The returning billionaire smiled at the press, thinly, resembling grimaces more than any expression of cordiality, much less joy. It was a hard expression, one that Jessamine had never before seen in his previously carefree countenance.

And as Stark drew closer, she saw that the remnants of his time in Afghanistan were not as superficial as she had thought. It was reflected in the air around him too. There was a difference in the way he held himself, even taking into account his injuries; his shoulders were slumped, weighted down by an invisible force, his eyes darted around, from face to face with precision.

Jessamine recognised that habit well. The need to document each and every potential threat in the room, the unyielding paranoia that whispered distrust in the back of the mind—those were old friends to her and to many of those who had fought in the War.

Stark was less than a few metres away when he saw her. A ghost of a smile twitched at his lips, a mere echo of the roguish grin he had once treated her with. She held his gaze, observing the darkness in there. The truth of it laid clear within; Tony Stark was teetering on an edge. The kidnapping did not break him, but it had twisted and ripped at parts of him. It had turned him into something harder, different, _lesser_ in some ways—a survivor.

"Welcome back, Mr Stark," she murmured when he was close enough to hear.

He nodded with a guarded, almost awkward expression. "Good to see you too, Jess."

Then Stane swept him into the building, a horde of Stark Industries employees following after them. She waited for the bulk of them to move past her before she joined the trailing crowd. Inside, a massive gathering of reporters was already waiting, and upon seeing Stark, they began to applaud.

Jessamine settled against a wall on the far side of the podium, surveying the scene. There was an air of eager anticipation in the room, one that was almost sympathetic in nature. It drew to Jessamine's mind a contrasting image of the reporters she'd experienced in the Wizarding World, who had more often than not been like hounds, sniffing out the slightest scent of weakness to exploit. These, in the entrance hall of Stark Industries, seemed to be genuinely glad for Stark's safety, or at the very least, sympathetic to his plight.

It was entirely unnatural to her.

Potts lingered in the back too, though she stood a distance away from Jessamine. She was talking to a man, but even as she was doing so, she wore a wide smile that seemed to stretch wider every time she looked at Stark.

At least someone was genuinely happy that Stark is home and safe, thought Jessamine. She turned her attention back to the podium, where Stane stood behind a lectern, ready to give his speech. "Alright, let's get started," he said. The rest of his speech, however, was never to see the light of day, nor Stark's, because the man had settled on the ground.

"For Merlin's sake," muttered Jessamine. Back for less than an hour, and Stark was already determined to break rules and live outside the box.

" _Hey, would it be alright if everyone sat down_?" called out Stark, withdrawing a hamburger from his jacket pocket. " _Why don't you just sit down? That way you can see me… Little less formal_."

A rustle of clothing swept throughout the room as a horde of reporters began to sit down. Jessamine, after a moment's pause, followed suit.

" _I never got to say goodbye to my father_ ," was Stark's opening sentence. It was uncharacteristically vulnerable of him, and there was a touch of bitterness in his tone. " _There's questions that I would've asked him. I would've asked him how he felt about what his company did. If he was conflicted, if he ever had doubts… Or maybe he was every inch the man we all remember from the newsreels._ " He paused then, surveying the reporters, gauging their reactions. " _I saw young Americans killed by the very weapons I created to defend them and protect them. And I saw that I had become part of a system that is comfortable with zero accountability._ "

As he spoke, his gaze turned darker and darker with remembrance. The atmosphere of the room followed his declining mood, and by the end of his admission, the air was oppressive and sombre.

" _What happened over there_?" asked a reporter, his voice soft.

There was another pause, as Stark seemed to struggle to break free from his memories. Then, as though injected with a new shot of energy, he stood and said, " _I had my eyes opened. I came to realise that I have more to offer this world than just making things to blow up_ "—Jessamine wondered at the phrasing of that statement, but at his next words, the thought was quickly dismissed from her mind—" _And that is why, effective immediately, I am shutting down the weapons manufacturing division of Stark Industries_ …"

Pandemonium.

Stark had yet to finish his sentence before everyone, including Jessamine, was standing once more. Reporters screamed questions, clamouring to be heard. Stane reached forward as though to pull Stark away from the lectern, pull him away from the spotlight. There was a definite glint of panic in his eyes. Shock was the dominant emotion, one which Jessamine mirrored. She had not thought to expect this—had thought that Stark was a carefree billionaire, who hardly cared of the consequences of his actions.

A part of her that wasn't wide-eyed and slack-jawed processed with clinical detachment Stark's next words. "… _until such a time as I can decide what the future of this company will be, what direction it should take—one that I am comfortable with, and is consistent with the highest good of this country._ "

Stane stepped forward then, his pre-written speech forgotten. As he tried desperately to salvage the press conference, Stark made for a quick exit of the building. In moments, he was gone, Potts trailing behind him with a shell-shocked expression on her face.

"Excuse me."

Jessamine twitched, her fingers flexing in an aborted motion to her wand. The man speaking to her looked apologetic. "I'm sorry for startling you," he said, loudly over the roar of the crowd. "My name is Phil Coulson." Jessamine realised that this was the man who she had seen speaking to Potts earlier.

"Jess Wright," said Jessamine, her face falling into a composed, polite mask that was almost second nature to her now. She turned to face him completely. Wariness blooming in her gut, and she fought the instinct to tense. "How can I help you, Mr Coulson?"

On the surface, Phil Coulson did not look like much. He was neither striking nor handsome—instead, he seemed a mixture of the most average features one could possibly have. He was in his thirties, possibly forties, with a receding hairline and a friendly smile. But something of him made her want to lash out. Perhaps it was the eyes, his only outstanding feature. A piercing, pale shade, they seemed to be cataloguing everything of her appearance.

"I was just wondering what you thought of the press conference," said Coulson. There was a subtle deepening in his voice, and his eyes were fixed on her. He was standing quite close to her, his posture relaxed and open. His manner edged on flirtation, yet she saw no indication of true attraction. His pupils were stubbornly contracted, and there were no signs of anxiety, only a calm, cool composure.

"It was interesting," said Jessamine. "Certainly shocking."

Coulson chuckled. "I don't think anyone expected _that_." When she didn't respond in a way to invite continued interaction, he persisted, "So what do you do? Are you a reporter?"

"I'm Obadiah Stane's personal assistant," said Jessamine. She felt, though she couldn't be sure, as though there was some game being played here. As though she was being tested. "And you, Mr Coulson?"

"Please, call me Phil," he said pleasantly. "I work for the government."

"Oh?"

"It's very boring, I assure you," said Coulson. Jessamine did not feel very assured at all. "I mostly do paperwork."

"Which department?" she probed further.

Coulson's lips tightened just a fraction, but Jessamine's gaze was so trained upon him now, that she noticed it in an instant. "Defence," he said.

"On the contrary, that sounds quite exciting," said Jessamine.

"Like I said, I do mostly paperwork." Then, before she could comment further, he added, "I wonder, Miss Wright, if you would be interested in grabbing a late lunch after this?"

Jessamine arched an eyebrow. "For business or for pleasure?"

"Pleasure, of course," replied Coulson with a half-smile.

"I'm flattered, but I'm afraid I simply won't have time," said Jessamine, nodding her head towards Stane, who was wrapping up the press conference.

"A shame," said Coulson, not looking the slightest bit upset by the rejection. "There's this place nearby… Great food, quiet atmosphere. It would've been nice."

"That does sound lovely."

"It's called the Turnstile Diner. Have you been there before?" There was a frozen moment after he spoke.

"Yes, actually. The food is quite good," said Jessamine, her smile a touch too fixed. "Perhaps I'll see you there, Mr Coulson."

"Perhaps," he echoed. Pale-coloured eyes bore into hers. The effect of their intensity was such that Jessamine tensed briefly, her jaw tightening and her nostrils flaring. It was the slightest falter, a sign that she knew this conversation was not merely a cordial exchange and that she was, even if only so slightly, unnerved.

His thin lips quirked into a half-smile, and Jessamine knew he'd caught the fractures in her mask. "It was nice meeting you, Miss Wright," said Coulson. He withdrew a card from within his pocket. "Call me if you change your mind about that lunch."

He walked away without another word, leaving Jessamine feeling, distinctly, as though she had just lost whatever game they had been playing.

* * *

The sun had long set, and the streets outside were dark and deserted. All was quiet, until a loud, echoing _crack_ sounding from the large, triple-story townhouse that was Jessamine's home.

She had Apparated straight into the entrance hall after she had finished up at the office. Flinging her coat to one side and kicking her heels off in haphazard haste, Jessamine made her way through to the living room. The fireplace crackled with heat, and Pansy was lounging on the sofa in front of it. She started at Jessamine's sudden entrance, lurching upwards and nearly spilling a glass of wine.

"He's here?" asked Jessamine, her tone one that demanded a quick reply.

"Yes," said Pansy, obliging without a usual snarky comment. She had a knack for discerning when Jessamine would be amused by her wit and when she found it intolerable, which Jessamine found she was most appreciative of. "The basement."

"Where's Dennis?"

"Library."

"Good. We'll be speaking to our guest now. Follow me," ordered Jessamine.

"Now?" asked Pansy, eyebrows rising.

"A change of plans," replied Jessamine, her lip curling. "Our friend's absence has been noted."

"But we've only had him for a day." They walked round the corner and swiftly continued down the stairs towards the basement. "The staff thinks he's out sick."

"He's being watched. And whoever is watching him knows that we have him," said Jessamine grimly. The conversation with Coulson had haunted her throughout the day, pressing in her mind as she slaved through press releases and last-minute appointments at Stane's behest. "It seems we're not the only ones with an interest in Gary Lukesworth."

Pansy said no more after that, her expression setting in a similarly dark cast.

They descended into the basement, which initially had been little more than the size of a single garage. But Jessamine had corrected that, using expansion charms liberally to turn the basement into a large dungeon, divided into five cells. Each was lit with glowing white orbs the size of a fist that pulsed gentle waves of light.

The fifth cell was the only one occupied.

Jessamine stopped at its door. She drew her wand, and dragged the tip of it from her temple, down the side of her cheek, over the hollow of her neck and straight down her sternum to her belly. Her glamour charms shimmered and flickered, her features flitting back and forth between Jess Wright's and Jessamine Potter's, until finally, she stood in her true appearance.

She pushed the door open. Gary's hands were bound behind his back. His withered skin seemed to sag years when he saw her. Yet only the slightest shred of fear revealed itself in the bob of his throat as he swallowed.

"Jess," whispered Gary. He did not seem to see Pansy, who followed Jessamine in, close at her heels like a protective shadow. "Where am I?"

"Jessamine, actually," she said. "Jessamine Potter."

There was no recognition of the name in his eyes. "Jessamine," said Gary, his voice wavered. He was, otherwise, remarkably composed for someone who had just learned that they had been lied to and deceived. "Whoever you are. Why did you bring me here?"

"Because I have questions," said Jessamine, Conjuring a chair for herself. Gary started at the sudden appearance of the furniture. "You're a very intriguing man, Mr Lukesworth, and a very talented one."

He stilled, the only movement his eyes, which flickered with badly-disguised anxiety. "I run a diner," he said carefully. "That's all."

"It isn't, though, is it?" Jessamine leaned forwards, tilting her head. "You recognised me the instant I walked in—yet I've never worn this face before in front of you."

A twitch of his eye. A muscle jumping in his cheek. "I don't understand."

"You're lying," she said. "I do not blame you. You fear being labelled insane, or perhaps, you fear that if people _do_ believe you, you'll be hunted for this curious talent of yours—rightfully so." She paused. "Unfortunately, I cannot humour half-truths and falsehoods now. We've run out of time far faster than I'd expected."

"Jess—Jessamine, I don't know what you're talking about," said Gary slowly. "But if you let me go now, we won't speak of this again. I'll forget this ever happened."

Jessamine gave a faint smile. "You're not very good at bargaining. I admit I don't want to be doing this. You've been most kind to me since I've met you, and I count you as… a friendly acquaintance."

"Then let me go," coaxed Gary.

"Necessity outweighs the whims of the conscience," said Jessamine. She tipped her head at him, and Pansy stepped forwards at her directive. Gary's head swivelled to her aide, eyes widening as though he had only just realised her presence. Jessamine added, almost gently if not for the coldness with which she chose her words and the emptiness of her tone, "Do not fear; we won't kill you. You will be returned safe and sound, and this will be little more than a murky, half-remembered dream."

Pansy drew her wand. Gary flinched at the sight of it. "I don't know what you want from me," he said, his words spilling forth. "I just run a diner—you know that—you eat at my restaurant every week." His papery voice faltered. "I give you free meals sometimes."

"And yet," said Jessamine, her expression and voice devoid of emotion. "Most people don't shake at the sight of a wooden stick."

The tip of Pansy's wand dug into the centre of his forehead, just millimetres above the crease of his brow. Grey wisps of hair pushed together, damp with sweat. "Jessamine—"

" _Legilimens_ ," snapped Pansy, and Gary broke off, his mouth falling open in a silent scream, the vein of his neck pulsing a violent, purpled line down his throat.

* * *

 **[A/N]: A little sneak-peek into the distant future...**

 _S_ _teve drove punch after punch into the bag. The impact felt good. It helped to calm his mind, helped ground him. It was the only thing that still felt the same in this changed world._

 _Thump. Thump. Thump-thump._

 _Thump-thump-thump. Thump._

 _Thump. Thump-thump. Thu—_

 _"Hello, Steve."_

 _He froze, fist stilling mid-punch. In the deep recesses of his mind, he felt something fracture. Like leaks in a dam, liquid seeped through the gaps and spilled forth. The cracks were spreading. More was pouring out._

 _Steve turned. He saw green eyes, vivid, bright, almost aglow—no, they_ were _glowing. He remembered them, recognised them. So ethereal, eerie in its otherworldliness—_

 _The dam broke._

Jessamine, _whispered his mind. He remembered._


	13. 13: Into The Deep

Jess. Jessamine. Brown eyes. Green eyes. Blonde. Black-haired.

On her brow, a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.

It dragged jagged strokes over the smooth skin of her forehead, from the roots of her hair, disappearing beneath her eyebrow.

It was intriguing. Made even more so by the fact that Gary's eyes glazed consistently over it. It took focus to remember it was there, dulled and hidden as though behind murky glass. Often, it faded in and out of Gary's thoughts, but when he did think of it, it was striking; it drew all attention.

Her eyes—vivid and extraordinary. When prompted, Cheryl had said they were brown. Kay had said he couldn't remember. Olson had shrugged.

Gary could see the dark film over them that was meant to dull its vibrant green into obscurity. But how his staff could miss such a glimmering shade was beyond him. It took more effort to see that dull brown; the green seemed to burn straight through whatever strange powers she had used to disguise her eyes, too fierce to be contained.

He wondered why she hid her appearance. He'd never seen anyone with two faces before.

He wondered if he was mad.

* * *

 _As long as Gary could remember, he could always see strange things. More often than not, he glimpsed them from the corner of his eyes. Buildings that didn't exist when he looked at them straight on. People that vanished through walls. Once, he thought he saw a bus squeeze and distort itself, slipping impossibly through the inch-wide gap between two cars._

 _When he blinked, the bus was gone._

 _No one else ever saw these strange occurrences. Only him._

 _Sometimes he thought he was imagining things. It had felt that way when he had tried to approach one of those disappearing buildings. But he could never quite make it there; something was always in the way. An old friend. A car accident. A parade, once._

 _There was one moment that Gary always held onto, however. He clung to it when in his darkest hours, he clung to it when he considered committing himself into a psychiatric ward for hallucinations._

 _The moment that—however brief, however insignificant—Gary knew he wasn't crazy. That he was_ right _, and there was an entire world out there that he could see, and if he reached out, he could almost—_ almost— _grasp._

* * *

How long had this been going on? Every thought, every feeling, every doubt, every fear, every emotion laid bare to her. Things he hadn't even remembered, things he hadn't wanted to remember.

All of them were stripped down, all illusions and delusions ripped away to reveal himself, small, lost and terrified.

She knew it all. Everything he had known about himself and everything he hadn't known.

* * *

 _He was staring across the street. He was in Chicago for a week, visiting an old friend who had worked at the same firm as him._

 _There was a woman walking down the street. She was familiar. It took Gary a moment to place her; she had been a semi-regular customer at his diner. A woman by the name of Susan, with whom he had developed an amicable friendship. She still dropped in occasionally, but not as often anymore. He dimly recalled something about her moving._

 _He almost called out to her, but something stilled his tongue. Instead, he watched her stop to buy a cup of coffee, then stop at a newsstand to pick up the day's paper. He watched her chat to the shop-owner. They seemed friendly; she must have been a regular at the small store._

 _She looked up then and saw him. He waved. Her smile faded._

 _She crossed the street to meet him. For some reason, she was nervous. "Gary," she said, fidgeting with her newspaper. He caught a glimpse of one of the big, bold headlines—_ Kestrels Overwhelming Shock Win 220-30— _before she tucked the paper deliberately out of sight. "What a surprise!"_

 _"_ _Susan," said Gary warmly. "Long time no see."_

 _"_ _It has been a while, hasn't it?" she said with an unnatural, high-pitched laugh. "Come on, let's get out of this cold… There's this place nearby that makes great coffee—nothing compared to yours, but we can have a nice long chat there."_

 _"_ _Of course," he said. Then he paused, glancing at the store she had bought her paper from. "Do you mind, though, I think I'd just like to get today's paper—"_

 _"_ _No!"_

 _Her grip on his arm was bruising and sudden. He stared at her; she stared back, eyes wide. There was something within—an emotion, raw and sharp, that made him uncomfortable._

 _"_ _It won't take a moment," said Gary slowly._

 _"_ _I have the paper with me right here," she said, her hold not loosening an inch. "I'll lend it to you."_

 _His suspicion stirred. "Oh. Well, could I take a look? Only, I wanted to see the Sports section."_

 _There was that grating, unnatural laugh again. "Of course," said Susan. He nearly missed it, but he glimpsed a flash of some kind of stick in her hand. Then it was gone, and she handed the paper to him._

 _He turned to the last page._

 _The headline read:_ Manchester United Solid Win Over Liverpool 3-0. _Gary stared for a long moment. Were his eyes acting up again?_

 _"_ _Did your team win?" asked Susan. There was that look in her eyes again. He recognised it now._

 _Fear._

 _She knew, he realised. Whatever strange world he caught snippets of, she was part of it. She knew, and she feared that he was aware of that fact._

 _There was a mixture of feelings within him; so violent, so chaotic was the maelstrom that he almost felt nauseous—vindication, delight, confusion, knowing._

 _Sanity._

 _He was sane. This wasn't a figment of his imagination._

 _"_ _Yes," Gary replied absently. He struggled to hide the jubilation, the wild happiness. With forced sedateness, he gave her the paper back. They ducked into a coffee shop and made awkward small talk for half an hour. He probed into her past a bit, but those questions were deflected, or her answers were perfectly average and mundane._

 _Perhaps too mundane._

 _Finally, Susan made her excuses and left. Gary knew no more about her than what he had known half an hour before._

 _She never reappeared in his diner again._

* * *

Back. Further back. Images sped past his mind, pushed aside when it wasn't what she wanted. She was searching for something—what? He had told them. He didn't know anything about this power of his.

But she kept at it. Pushed him further and further into the past. Slowly, thoroughly, methodically.

Like a surgeon.

It occurred to him, in a dusty corner of his mind, the precision and detachment with which she tore open his memories was almost a mercy. No unnecessary incision was made, no unnecessary pain inflicted. There was no mockery when she sifted through his thoughts to find what she wanted. She did not linger, and the disinterest in his life tempered the humiliation that roared through him.

But no matter how tempered, it never made the shame bearable—only a little less than what it could have been.

* * *

 _Gary stood before a set of heavy, wooden doors. They were so polished he could see his reflection in the wood. His haggard appearance, the bags beneath his eyes, the frown lines that marred his face._

 _His right hand shook, and he stared down at it. Wrinkled, the beginnings of liver spots scattered across the back of it. Age. It was a cruel, unforgiving thing. He was well into his fifties, and what had he to show for it? Successful at a job he hated. Wealthy, without a family to share it with._

 _Old, miserable and bitter._

 _He pushed the door open. The other partners were in there already. They were only waiting for him so that the meeting could begin._

 _It was tedious. He closed his eyes, his attention drifting away from the conversation. Somewhere far away. To the past, where he had, once, been happy. Idealistic. There had been so many things he had wanted to do—see the world, learn, help people…_

 _And so he had entered law. To save people._

 _He paused, his ever-present frown deepening. That didn't seem quite right. Something about it was wrong, but he couldn't put a finger on what exactly._

 _How strange._

 _"_ _Gary, you said you had something to speak to us about?"_

 _He opened his eyes, blinking around at the roundtable of people. It must have looked like he had been sleeping, for he had heard a note of disapproval in his colleague's voice. He cleared his throat. "Yes, actually. I do." There had been a pre-prepared speech. A long, dull speech about the many years he had given this firm, and the many joys it had given him. All meaningless platitudes that now wedged in his throat, refusing to leave his lips._

 _"_ _Gary?" said his colleague, impatience colouring his tone._

 _"_ _Apologies," he murmured. He was, suddenly, eager to just get this over with. He was like a man who was mere inches from the light after years in suffocating, oppressive darkness. "I'm resigning."_

 _Something in him eased. He could almost smile now._

* * *

"I found it," breathed Pansy.

* * *

 _Merlin's beard…_

A thought. But it was foreign. It wasn't his thought—it was _hers._

The pain had ceased. No fresh, crippling wave tossed him into mindless throes of agony. There was only an old, dull ache. Like the burn of a muscle after it had been stretched to its limit.

 _Get out_ , he thought. It was weak, barely more than a mumble.

But she heard.

 _Not yet._

She pressed forward, and Gary's mind buckled.

* * *

"Welcome back."

The voice was distorted, as though spoken underwater. He frowned, trying to open his eyes, but his lids were too heavy. It took a moment for him to remember what had happened, who had taken him and where he was. His head pounded, and his senses flared and withered with every throb of pain.

"Easy now," murmured the voice again. It was clearer this time, and Gary recognised it as Jessamine's. Something cool pressed against his lips, and he tried to twist away, but a hand clamped his face in place. He was too weak to struggle for long. Liquid trickled down his throat, foul, acrid and suffocating. "I know, it's quite ghastly, but all potions are."

An involuntary swallow gulped down most of the liquid, and he was hit with a sudden, jarring wave of clarity. Energy surged through him, and he found the strength to jerk his chin from the iron grip, coughing and gasping.

He opened his eyes, wincing as bright light burned into his corneas. Jessamine stood before him, wearing a cool smile. In her hands, she held an emptied vial. "What the hell was that?" rasped Gary. There was a rustle of noise behind him, and he realised, with a chill, that that was likely the other woman—the one who had—

His mind shied away from the thought, both for the humiliation that still curdled in his mouth and the impossibility of it.

"Rejuvenation Potion," said Jessamine. It suited her, this appearance; its face was carved with hard edges and sharp, deliberate strokes. It was a face devoid of warmth despite the smile that adorned it, the veneer of geniality and pleasantness stripped away along with the deception of Jess Wright. Indeed, though it felt real— _right—_ it was so unfeeling that he thought she resembled a marble statue. And that if she had been a statue, she must have been carved with the likeness of Bellona in mind.

Then her reply filtered through his brain. "Rejuvenation… Potion?"

"A concoction made from Sopophorous beans, eel eyes, nettle, nightshade and shavings of a newt tail," she said. "Simmered for twenty minutes until light blue, then stirred clockwise twelve times, and counter-clockwise thrice."

Gary stared blankly at her. "Sopophorous? Nightshade? Newt tail?" he repeated, his voice faint. "Stirred clockwise?"

"Come now, surely you can make the connection. You're not an unintelligent man," said Jessamine. Then she frowned. "Perhaps another dose of the potion is required."

A throb of pain pushed against his temples, and Gary ducked his head, burying his face into his hands. _Disappearing buildings, buses that defied reality, potions, nightshade and newt. Wooden sticks—wands._ Realisation welled up from within, but disbelief held it at bay. Yet he also suspected the truth was something he had known for a while now. On some level, at least. He simply had never acknowledged it, the thought too ridiculous even for he, who saw it bared before his eyes every day.

Finally, the word slipped from his lips, a strangled, barely coherent noise. "Witches." It was right, he knew in that instant. Magic. _Magic._

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

"Very good," said Jessamine, sounding pleased. "Though that is only used in reference to females; males are known as 'wizards'."

"Have I finally gone mad?" asked Gary, looking up at Jessamine.

"Not at all," she replied. "You've merely been granted the privilege to see behind the veil of secrecy that has kept our worlds apart for so long."

It took a moment for him to decipher what was it about the statement that felt off to him. He filed away his incredulity for later. For now, he needed his mind sharp. "Why?"

"It's an awkward situation, really," said Jessamine, her green eyes flickering to whoever stood behind him before settling back on him. "You see, you shouldn't exist. A Muggle who sees through our disguises and spells as easily as though looking through a glass window? Such power is impossible, even amongst our kind."

"Muggle?"

"Non-magical people," she said. "You are a rarest commodity, indeed, Mr Lukesworth, and quite a dangerous one too. We do not know if there are others like you out there, but we cannot simply allow you to wander around without some kind of"—she paused—"guarantee."

His mind whirred. "A guarantee of silence," he said. "Who would believe me, even if I told them?"

"A surprising number, I'd wager," said Jessamine. "Did you know, for example, that you are being watched? Not by us—but by a government organisation known as S.H.I.E.L.D."

 _S.H.I.E.L.D…_ Something nudged at him in the back of his mind, and his brow furrowed. It was a familiar name, and he felt almost as though there was knowledge pressing at the tip of his tongue. Something half-forgotten, as though from a dream. "Why were they watching me?"

Jessamine watched him closely for a moment. Then she replied, "That is the mystery, isn't it? Unsettling for all of us here, I imagine."

 _Yes_ , thought Gary. _Quite unsettling_. He turned shrewd eyes on her. "Why are you telling me all this?"

She leaned back in her chair, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. "You're a man of logic," said Jessamine. "One rare enough to recognise that logic does not always prevail, and that sometimes, to be illogical is better than being logical. You remind me, in that respect, of a man I once knew and admired. A wizard, actually." She fell silent, her gaze distant. It was only the pointed clearing of a throat from the woman behind Gary that brought Jessamine back to reality. "Forgive me. I digress. As I was saying, you are a man of logic—here, then, are the facts.

"You harbour a potent power, one that we cannot allow to run unchecked. You are being watched, and your watchers have grown suspicious of me. Doubtless, they will attempt to infiltrate my home if you are not returned by sundown." She glanced upwards, and Gary felt a chill spread through his chest and reach for the tips of his fingers. He had the eerie feeling that she was staring through the walls, seeing exactly where her would-be infiltrators were lying in wait. "You may think to go to them and tell of what I've done, or wait until they come get you. If I kill you, after all, I draw the ire of this organisation. If I keep you here to ensure your silence, they will come anyway."

The thoughts had, actually, passed through Gary's mind—but they had been dismissed as quickly as they came. He had barely seen a fraction of Jessamine's power, but a twisted feeling coiling in his stomach told him that if she so desired, she could have brought the world to its knees, shady government organisation or not.

"Or perhaps you're smarter than to think that," said Jessamine quietly. "In which case, you are quite correct; there is only one option for you, one I think you will find is not so unfavourable to you either."

There was a snort, and Jessamine narrowed her eyes. "Forgive dear Pansy," she said, jerking her fingers. The woman, who had been silent until now, stepped forth from behind Gary reluctantly. She was dark-skinned, and of medium height, with a rather short nose. The sight of her made him recoil. "She is very distrustful of Muggles, an opinion that I'm afraid many of our kind shares. She is a little ill-tempered right now, thus why she has abandoned her usually impeccable sensibilities and thinks to doubt me." Her voice turned dangerous, and Pansy twitched, her cheeks paling.

"My apologies, Mistress," said Pansy, her head bowed in clear deference. Gary had thought they were friends, but it was becoming evident that their dynamic was more complicated than that. "I was out of turn."

Jessamine inclined her head in acknowledgement, then turned to Gary once more. "Where was I? Ah, yes, you have one option at this point: a ritual performed to ensure your silence. It will bind this secret in your soul. If you consent, you may never speak of your knowledge again, unless to one already aware of those secrets. And I will tell you everything—what you see and what magic is."

His mouth was dry. A small part of his brain still rebelled at the idea of magic, but he quieted it. It was so tempting. This offer was everything he had ever dreamed—to know and understand what he saw, to have some _closure._ Yet part of him refused to fall in line—not without asking some questions. "Why not just do it? Why—why even explain it to me?"

"Soul magic is a bit funny. Very delicate—consent is required in all matters of the soul; something of a romantic notion." Here, her nose wrinkled in distaste. "If I did not have your explicit agreement, going ahead with the ritual might have, ah, torn you apart a little. The information is mere incentive."

"Torn me apart… a little," repeated Gary. He paused for a moment, horror warring with a strange awe at the fact that the soul was, in fact, _real._ The revelation digested slowly before he spoke again, "And if I try to tell others the secret?"

"Nothing will happen," she said. "You will be unable to utter a word, even if you tried until your face was blue." She smiled then, ugly and sharp. "Though _I_ will know that you tried."

Gary shuddered again.

"Are we in agreement then?"

* * *

 **[A/N]: Hello again, my wonderful readers. I'd like to start off with a shout-out to a reviewer who, unfortunately, I can't name because they were signed in as a Guest. They caught a few mistakes I'd made and helpfully pointed them out, as well as left several reviews on separate chapters. Some were corrected, and others I will... soon. I've been procrastinating a bit, hehe *head droops in shameful disgrace***

 **This chapter was a tricky one. I had to try to explain enough of Jessamine's decisions so that they both made sense, and did not seem like I'm just explaining the plot for the sake of you readers. Just keep in mind that there is a reason why Jessamine doesn't go with the easy route in this chapter and just Obliviate Gary. A reason which I hope I'll be able to integrate into the story naturally.**

 **Some might also have noticed that my update pace has become for infrequent/irregular. I've decided to take a small step back from writing fanfiction - which is not to say I'm abandoning this story. Far from it. I'm just not trying to get a chapter up every week anymore. I'm sorry about that, but I think it's time for me to refocus some of my attention on my long-neglected original fiction. My dream is to become a published author one day, and unfortunately, I can't do that by spending all my free time on writing fanfiction.**

 **Anyway, enough of my blabbering. For those of you who bothered reading this A/N at all, thanks for reading the fic, and I hope you guys have enjoyed the latest update :)**


	14. 14: The Cold

**[A/N]: I had, once upon a time, planned on making Gary a mutant. Then I tried to make sense of the X-Men timeline and realised it was impossible.**

 **Happy Monday (note: this is very sarcastic) to all of you around the world. Mine is coming to an end... thank God. And uni has started again (hooray) so expect updates to become sparser as it really starts to whip my procrastinating ass into shape.**

 **Anyway, this was a fun chapter to write. Hope you guys enjoy it!**

* * *

Jessamine stepped into the room behind Gary. He was pale, jittery and anxious. He turned to shut the door behind him, and his eyes slid past Jessamine as though she was a fly on the wall.

Inside the room, there was a large table. There were thirteen seats, and only one was empty. Gary sat down in it while Jessamine walked around the room. It was not her first time in here—she had, in fact, been in this room at least ten times. Each time yielded no more information than the last, but Jessamine refused to give up.

There were few details in the room. Jessamine could see photos of previous partners, but their faces were blurred and indistinct. There was a window, but nothing could be seen outside. Gary sat in between two people, but their faces, while sharp and crisp like a photo, were faces of famous actors, not lawyers. And a logo, a name, emblazoned on the back wall. The letters liked to move around, shifting and drifting as though they weren't sure where to go.

Everything seemed underwater here. A distorted room, moving constantly, never still, never sure. A heaviness in the air—not from the atmosphere itself, but as though the very memory itself was being weighed down. Dragged down so that another, underneath it, would never rise.

This was a false memory, of that Jessamine was sure. Nor was it one consciously changed—she knew what such memories looked like. Their flaws were obvious, their disguises like ill-fitting suits sagging off the frame. This one was vague enough that it almost felt like a half-forgotten memory, if not for the unnatural heaviness of it.

But what was the false memory hiding? She could not see a crack in the walls, could not see a point where Pansy could penetrate to grasp at what was _real._

The Gary of the memory began to speak. There was a sharp clarity around him, something that cut through the fog and centred around him. Here was where the memory was tied to. His speech—his resignation. His words were the only things real in here, and the rest of it was likely conjured by the mind to fill the gaps. A conflicted look rose on his weary face, wrinkled and lined before its years, then it cleared. He relaxed then, looking far more like the Gary that Jessamine knew, and said, "I'm resigning."

Jessamine pondered the words. They were the truth—he had resigned, but it hadn't been from a law firm.

So where?

* * *

Jessamine had not stepped foot in the Turnstile Diner since the night she had dropped Gary off there, the man shaken and disturbed by his ordeal. The least she could give him, she felt, was time, even if she could only afford to give him a week to adjust.

That one week had slid past like water on stone. And it was with a plastic smile–as well as a healthy dose of deliberate ignorance when Gary paled at the sight of her face—that Jessamine sat down in the diner and perused the menu. He did not come out to speak to her, the very decision to stay ensconced in his kitchen drawing a raised eyebrow from Olson, who knew that Gary usually made it a habit to take Jessamine's order himself when she was in.

It was unfortunate for Jessamine, however, that in between the chaos of her work and her hurry to bring Gary back into the fold, she had forgotten it was a Friday.

"Hi, how can I—oh, it's you!"

Jessamine stilled.

It was a high-pitched voice that lent itself well to an unholy squeal. The person the voice belonged to bounced on the balls of her feet, a frenzied motion that swayed her frizzy blonde curls from side to side in a way that reminded Jessamine, painfully, of her Hogwarts dormmate, Lavender Brown. But worse than Lavender Brown, this person was—

Cheryl.

Jessamine suppressed her shudder, the only sign of it being a twitching tic at the bottom of her left eye.

"I kinda thought I scared you off for good," said Cheryl with a grin. "But Gary's food is great, isn't it? Bet you couldn't resist it."

"It is good food," agreed Jessamine. "I'm sorry, what was your name again?" No need to encourage her further by revealing she _had_ remembered the girl's name.

"Cheryl. Man, your accent is so cool," she said. "I wish I had a cool accent like that—all I got is classic New Yorker, though. I can't even try for a Texan drawl. You know, those cowboy accents, like 'yee-haw'." She drew out the last word, thickening her voice to badly mimic the Texan accent.

"I see." Jessamine wasn't sure how best to respond—in a way considered polite, that is. She had plenty of ideas about how she would _like_ to respond, but many were generally not fit for public display. Eventually, she decided on ignoring anything that hadn't made sense. "I'll get a chicken and jalapeno burger, please."

"Drinks, Your Highness?"

Jessamine winced, but the teasing note in Cheryl's nicknaming was a far cry from the near-worship she had shown in their first… meeting. It seemed the girl had developed _some_ decency. Even if she still talked too much. "A Coke."

"Coming right up!" Cheryl turned with a skipping leap, wandering off to the kitchens.

Jessamine spied Gary in the back, looking grim and stressed. He kept his eyes firmly on his cooking, not looking up once. She sighed; it would take a while to develop a semblance of trust again—trust which she _needed_ , now rather than later. If she had known beforehand how everything would turn out, perhaps she might have gone for a softer approach. But the knowledge that she was being watched by S.H.I.E.L.D had forced her to power through her schedule, and in the end, they hadn't even managed to uncover the root of Gary's sight. Pansy had described the mental block in Gary's head as a spiderweb—complex, large, and if ripped too hastily, the entire thing would collapse and damage him permanently. So they were still stumbling blind, except now, they were being stonewalled by Gary too.

Too many hurdles, and not enough information. In her haste, she had forgotten patience, and she would pay dearly for that. Now Jessamine had to rebuild her relationship with Gary—what little that she could. That would take more time, and she worried that she wouldn't have enough.

But she still had a few more cards to play before things got truly troublesome.

"Here you go, Highness." Cheryl returned with a glass of Coke. She lingered at the table, a look of hesitance on her freckled face, before finally saying, "Listen. Gary told me off real good about what happened last time—and I'm cool now, I swear. He said I made you uncomfortable, and honestly, I just thought your accent was amazing. I didn't mean to. Honest."

Jessamine tilted her head. The girl hadn't actually apologised in explicit terms, but it was written all over her face. "Very well. I understand."

Cheryl looked like she wanted to say something more, but thought better of it. "I'll be back with your food in a sec."

When she returned next, Jessamine had a note ready for her. "Give this to Gary, won't you?" She got an odd look for the request, but Cheryl acquiesced all the same. She did not worry about the note being read; to all other eyes but hers and Gary's, the note contained a simple praise of the food. "Thank you."

Jessamine watched Gary's reaction when Cheryl handed him the paper. He started, glanced at Jessamine warily. When their eyes met, he looked away, a quick, instinctive movement. His hands shook as they opened the note. After a moment, he folded it back up and tucked it into his back pocket. He did not look at her again.

Satisfied, Jessamine dug into her lunch.

* * *

It was Sunday evening when Jessamine heard a voice cursing her name. She had been outside by the pool, and though the voice was coming from inside the house, it was so loud that it reached her easily and cut through her concentration.

She looked up and saw a blonde woman with watery blue eyes and heavily-freckled skin. It was a face she had grown accustomed to, and though it still felt oily on her skin, it no longer gave her a prickling unease whenever she looked at it in the mirror.

Right now, the face was being worn by another, and it was twisted into an expression of utmost disdain. It was almost strange, and Jessamine wondered if that expression always looked so unnatural whenever she wielded it under the guise of Jess Wright.

"Your job is awful," said Pansy. "Ghastly. Absolutely exhausting. And it's too Muggle. I had to write seventy emails today; I expect you'll get some very confused replies."

"For Merlin's sake, Pansy," said Jessamine. "It's a secretary job. It's what you actually do for me now."

"Yes—and I use owls to send mail. It's a perfectly sensible method of communication; all you need is parchment, ink, a quill and a bird. None of this nonsense about 'Inbox' and 'Outbox' and 'Subject's." She started to peel off the glamour spells, and bit by bit, traces of Pansy's true appearance began to fade into existence. When the last spell was stripped off, she sighed, "Much better. I don't know how you do this every day, Jessamine, I really don't. It feels like walking around soaked in Sleakeazy's."

"I use a spell," said Jessamine. She smiled wryly at Pansy's outrage ("You could have told me!"), and continued, "My job's not always so bad. It's because of Stark, really. They've got almost everyone working over the weekends to deal with the fallout from the press conference. Stocks are down twenty points."

"I know. I had to listen to Stane rave about it all day," muttered Pansy. "How are things coming with the shopkeeper?"

"It's coming," said Jessamine, sighing. "I asked him to meet us tonight. We'll see if Lukesworth turns up."

"Do you want me to fetch him if he doesn't?"

"No," said Jessamine. "Let him come on his own. He will… eventually."

Pansy seemed slightly sceptical but nodded.

"Why don't you see if Dennis needs any help?" suggested Jessamine. "I need to concentrate on the wards." Though Dennis would probably despair of Pansy going anywhere near his computers. He still bemoaned the day he tried to teach her how to use one properly, and she had ended up clicking on a shady advertisement and infecting the machine with a virus. "They've been acting up a bit."

Pansy stepped closer in curiosity but thought better of it when she was met with a wall of icy air. Even after years, the feeling of Jessamine's released magic never failed to unsettle her. With a visible shudder and hurried steps back, she said, "Alright. I'll see you inside."

Jessamine turned her attention back to the wards as Pansy disappeared into the house. She had been conducting her monthly check of the wards this morning when she had discovered a curious aberration in them. Jessamine remembered the decision to make them water-based, though she had not understood the full extent of how the decision would influence the protections around her home. It had been an obscure concept, after all, one she had heard of and read of, but one that was never mentioned in detail.

She documented what she observed and noticed, the primary one that drew her attention being several attempted breaches. The wards had not warned her of any attempts, and she had not noticed any until she had checked them, which was a concern. But upon looking into them in more detail, she realised why.

Somehow, the outer wards, mostly perimeter and identification wards, had drawn on the Muggle-Repelling wards she had set up around specific rooms _inside_ the house. Even more fascinatingly, when she had delved into the reason behind this, she had discovered that the wards seemed to have developed a sort of intelligence. They had detected her would-be intruders, and identified them as—she highly suspected—S.H.I.E.L.D agents. They had sensed the agents' motives and her own desire to stay below S.H.I.E.L.D's radar. Thus, instead of allowing them to get caught in the more dangerous wards, they had borrowed from the Muggle-Repelling wards and redirected the intruders to the neighbouring house. And as the threat had been diverted, the wards had deemed it unnecessary to alert her.

It was a truly unexpected—extraordinary, really—development, and Jessamine made sure to take copious notes. Such intuitive behaviour from _wards_ was remarkable, though their intelligence was still limited. For one, the wards hadn't realised that by redirecting her intruders, they had conversely brought even more attention to her. S.H.I.E.L.D was likely scrambling to find out how she had managed to protect her house.

Jessamine was surprised they hadn't confronted her yet. Perhaps they were waiting, calculating their next move. They would close in on her soon, thinking her oblivious and unguarded.

But like S.H.I.E.L.D, she was waiting. Drawing them in, observing, and learning as much about them as she could. This time, she would be patient.

When they came, Jessamine would be ready. She hummed as she sifted through her wards, for all appearances enjoying a meditation session. Her magic coiled around her, searching, seeking, studying.

It felt, it saw and it learned.

* * *

Two hundred yards away, three men and two women were settled for the night on the roof. Four sat at a table playing poker, while the fifth was lying belly-down on the flat, concrete rooftop, pretending to stargaze. All seemed relaxed, but every one of them had at least one weapon strapped onto some part of their bodies.

Two of them, Temple and Carlson, had been there longer than the rest. They had drawn this assignment to observe some famous CEO's assistant. It had been a boring assignment—an easy one. He and Carlson had developed a nice rapport, just chatting about unimportant, impersonal things while watching the target go about her day. They had joked about how dull the assignment was.

They had been watching the target for three weeks. In the first week, Temple had learned that she had an interesting, if a little concerning, personality—logical, cold and detached. She didn't show much affection for anyone, aside from to a female, identified as Pansy Silverton. Carlson was the one to look up Silverton, and she had found that Silverton was an old friend of the target's, who worked as a freelance writer. Weird name, but otherwise, she had checked out okay. Temple had put that in his daily reports.

In the second week, they had continued to observe. Jess Wright hadn't really done anything of interest. Temple certainly hadn't caught her doing anything illegal. The target woke up, went to work, and went home straight after. Rinse and repeat. On the weekends, she mostly stayed at home. Once, she had sat outside by the pool and meditated.

Pretty boring stuff.

The third week was where things had really started to get interesting. Another old friend turned up—a kid called Dennis Creevey. They'd looked him up, identified him as a non-threat, and hadn't bothered looking further. Of course, Temple had still put him down in the report. He put everything down in the reports.

Then Stark had turned up from Afghanistan, and on the same day, Coulson himself had come down and joined them on their roof—with a team of ten agents.

Things had gotten weird then.

The team was supposed to infiltrate the target's home and collect information. Pretty straightforward. They had cased the place and gotten the blueprints. Easy job—multiple entry and exit points. The target had been at work, Silverton out for dinner and Creevey taking a nap, according to his heat signature. Nobody would notice them going in or out.

Except the place proved impossible to get into. It didn't even make any sense. The team had somehow ended up in the house next door. Coulson had snapped at them, told them to stop being idiots. They had tried again—and again, they had gotten confused. At some point, they had figured out there was something weird about the house. Suddenly, Jess Wright and her friends weren't so boring anymore.

The next night, Coulson had brought someone else with him. Temple had recognised her instantly—bright red hair, and a lithe, predatory walk, dressed in a skin-tight suit that hugged her swaying hips. He hadn't known her name, but he knew the moniker she had been given—the Black Widow. She was practically a S.H.I.E.L.D legend. If anyone could get in, it was her.

But she hadn't been able to either. Like everyone else, she had ended up in the neighbour's house, disoriented and frustrated.

Now, Temple was reclining in a chair, pretending he wasn't scared shitless as he played a game of poker with the Black Widow. He glanced at Carlson and saw that she was still wearing a vaguely stunned look, darting involuntary looks of awe at the Black Widow, whose name he had learned was Romanoff. Probably. He didn't put it past S.H.I.E.L.D to lie about that.

"Full house," said Romanoff, her voice a husky timbre. Romanoff, Temple had learned, was seduction and danger built into one. Everything she said, every move she made was designed to draw you in. Then she'd slit your throat while you were misty-eyed at her feet.

She was utterly and completely terrifying.

"Aw," said Temple, suppressing the tremor in his voice. He hadn't been quite successful, from the look that Carlson threw him.

"She has to be cheating," said O'Brien. He was a fairly high-ranking agent, and Temple thought he might have worked with Romanoff before. He didn't think anyone could be so relaxed meeting Romanoff for the first time. "No one is that lucky at poker."

Romanoff smiled—it almost seemed genuine. But if Temple looked closely enough, he thought he could see something cold and hard in her eyes. "Rickson," she said, turning around. "How's she doing?"

"Still meditating."

"Christ," said O'Brien. "It's been five hours."

"She only meditated for a couple of hours last time," said Carlson.

"Does anyone else find it weird that she only meditates once a month?" said O'Brien. "Meditation isn't a once-a-month kind of thing, you know."

Rickson snorted. "How would you know, O'Brien?"

"I meditate."

Rickson snorted again.

"No, seriously. It's good for concentration—and you know, concentration is good for the job. Gives me a better understanding of myself too. Self-awareness, you know."

"Self-awareness?" said Rickson incredulously. "You?"

Temple couldn't resist a smile, which promptly withered away when Romanoff rolled her eyes. "Boys," she said, a light warning in her voice. "Play nice."

O'Brien scowled at Rickson, who grinned back without the slightest hint of remorse. "I'll have you know that I believe self-awareness is the key to a happy life."

"Wrong job for self-awareness, don't you think?" said Carlson as Rickson broke down into quiet sniggers.

O'Brien shrugged. "Probably. I'll deal?"

Romanoff passed him the deck, which he shuffled expertly. Temple settled in for a long night of losing. He was fairly sure that Romanoff was counting the cards, but he sure as hell wasn't going to call her out on it.

O'Brien dealt the first card. Temple frowned, shivering as a familiar chill descended over him. It made his insides clench and his lips thin. Gooseflesh crawled across his body.

Romanoff's sharp eyes didn't miss a thing. "Cold?"

"Yeah," admitted Temple. "Aren't you guys?"

"A little bit," said Carlson. She shuddered too. "It gets cold up here sometimes. You get used to it, sort of." There was a dark look on her face, a feeling Temple mirrored. He wasn't sure it was the kind of cold you _could_ get used to.

"It did get colder," agreed Romanoff. "You're shivering though."

Temple shrugged helplessly. The chill came and went. It was a clammy, suffocating feeling, one that filled him with dread. He hated it, and for some reason, it seemed to follow them around rooftops. He hadn't known L.A was so cold up high. But it would pass, sometimes quicker than other times. Luckily, it was 'sometimes' tonight. Even as he picked up his cards and considered his hand, he could feel the terrible feeling begin to fade. He relaxed, warmth tingling back into his cheeks.

"Man," said Rickson. "You're right—it _is_ cold." He got up, pale and unsmiling, to retrieve his jacket. "Jesus."

Romanoff's dark eyes flicked back and forth. "You okay, Rickson?"

"Yeah," he said. "Might be the wind."

"It comes and goes," said Temple.

O'Brien rolled his eyes, impatient. "Look, are we playing, or are we going to keep talking about how Rickson's cock shrivels up from a bit of cold?"

Carlson wrinkled her nose. "No one was talking about that until you said it."

O'Brien grinned and winked.

"Alright then," sighed Temple. He glanced at Rickson. He was already back in position, staring ahead. He seemed fine now, though a grim air had settled over him. "Let's play."

They played. Rickson didn't complain about the cold again, but Temple saw him shiver a few more times. He didn't blame Rickson—the cold was an icy, clawing feeling. The first time he'd felt it, it had felt like a corpse's hand squeezing his organs. It had gotten better over time, its intensity fading, but it was still a horrible sensation.

Unnatural, almost.

But it's just the wind, in the end, thought Temple, and dismissed his paranoia.


	15. 15: Come In

**[A/N]: Not particularly satisfied with this chapter, but I can't figure out what to change. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint. Enjoy!**

* * *

Jessamine opened her wards on a Friday. They came on Sunday, late in the night.

 _Prompt_ , thought Jessamine as she lay awake in bed, listening to the light, barely audible footsteps of agents crawling over her rooftop. _Very prompt._ The moonlight that seeped in from her window blacked out momentarily, a shadow darting before it, then another. She recognised most of these people by the feel of their souls, though she did not know their names and faces. But she knew _who_ they were, their deepest selves, hidden away behind layers and layers of ego and self-deception, and that was infinitely more valuable than things as changeable as titles and appearances.

There was a soft creak as someone opened a window a few rooms over. The sound travelled down the hallway, along with a dull thump of a person's weight dropping to the ground. If she hadn't been awake and listening for those exact noises, she never would have noticed them. She might have mistook them as the sound of the wind outside, or some animal creeping around.

It was likely the library window that they had entered through; it was easy to get into, and being the place she, Pansy and Dennis spent most of their time, it was undoubtedly of great interest to them. She did not worry. Everything magical had been hidden away, out of sight, in a place they would not find.

She waited for a few more minutes. They were right outside her door now, pressing against it, their souls eager and anticipating.

Her bedroom door opened silently, with a sigh of wind sweeping through to brush against her face. She closed her eyes, letting her breath even out into a slow, deep rhythm. She felt, more than heard, one soul creep forwards. She recognised this one, ghosting the rooftops around the neighbourhood, watching and waiting. It felt like cold, sharp steel—so sharp that if Jessamine were a lesser woman, she might have recoiled. Rarely had she ever felt someone whose very presence emitted lethality, danger and ruthless efficiency.

The intruder was standing over her now. Jessamine felt a tingle on her cheek, her senses coming alive, hyper-aware in the tension of the moment.

"You can stop pretending now."

For a moment, Jessamine was completely still. Her very breath was held within her chest, unmoving. Then she opened her eyes. There was darkness before her, and a silhouette of a woman. "Who are you?" asked Jessamine, keeping her voice at a careful neutrality.

The lights flickered on. She narrowed her eyes as the sudden brightness assaulted her vision, but managed to see that her intruder was a relatively petite woman, with vivid red hair and a bodysuit that clung to her like a second skin. She spoke in a voice like velvet, "An associate of Agent Coulson's—you've met him."

"I've met him once," said Jessamine, sitting up. Underneath her sheets, she wore a silk dressing gown, sheer and light. It revealed more than she cared for, but she made no effort to hide anything. "Forgive my attire; I was not expecting… visitors so late in the night."

The agent ignored her jab in favour of eyeing her suspiciously. "You're very calm for someone who just woke up to a stranger in her bedroom."

"I don't think screaming will do much else other than wake my friends," said Jessamine. "And I was hoping that we could sort this out without rousing Pansy—she's quite terrifying when she hasn't had her beauty sleep." She paused. "Besides, I suspect you have them covered."

The agent's lips quirked up in a red smirk.

"What do you want with me then?" Jessamine waved a hand, ostensibly nothing more than a gesture, but in reality, she had begun sealing up her wards again. It would take at least a day for them to close up properly, but there was no rush. "Such cloak-and-dagger drama for nothing more than a glorified secretary."

There was a snort. "I think we both know that that's a lie," said the agent. Her gloved hand shifted by her side, and Jessamine looked to see a pistol held loosely in it. "S.H.I.E.L.D wishes to speak with you. If you're nothing more than a glorified secretary, then you won't mind coming in quietly."

"Ah, but as you've just said—we both know that I'm not." The agent tensed, raising her pistol slightly. "Will Agent Coulson be there?"

"Among others."

Jessamine hummed. "We did have a very interesting conversation last we met. Though I must say, I don't think I'll ever take him up on that date now. What a petty man he proved to be; if I had known that a rejection would have resulted in him sending people to break into my home…"

The agent's face remained blank, but Jessamine felt a wave of amusement from her. "Then you'll come quietly?"

"If you'll tell me your name."

There was a pause, as though she was deliberating. "Natalie Rushman," she relented, with an appropriate expression of reluctance.

Jessamine chuckled. "Strangely enough, I find I don't quite believe you, Agent Rushman." She stood, and in a flash, Rushman had her pistol aimed at her and a finger curled over the trigger. She flashed the agent a smile, and wandered over to her wardrobe to pick out a more appropriate set of clothes. "Surely you don't expect me to go gallivanting off in the night dressed like this? I'd freeze."

Ignoring the wary gaze affixed on her, Jessamine shimmied out of her nightdress. She was completely naked underneath. Rushman did not look away, but remained watchful and observant, ready to spring if Jessamine made a suspicious movement.

She had just hiked a pair of jeans over her hips when Rushman spoke up, "She's changing."

Jessamine glanced over her shoulder. Rushman had one hand held up against her ear, listening intently. "Is that Coulson?" asked Jessamine. "I'd like to speak to him if it is."

Rushman relayed the request, and there was a pause as the person on the other end replied. Then she took her earpiece off and handed it to Jessamine. She smiled and slid it on. "Agent Coulson," she said, a distinct purr of satisfaction in her voice. "We keep meeting in awkward circumstances, don't we?"

"It's unfortunate," agreed Coulson, his voice crisp and clear. "I assume you've agreed to come in?"

"Well, I don't think I was given much of a choice," said Jessamine lightly. "But I admit, I'm interested in what I could possibly offer that interests you—S.H.I.E.L.D, was it?—so."

"Your home—"

"My home was not what drew your interest. Something else drew your interest, after which you began to investigate me, and discovered the peculiarities of my home."

"So you are, in fact, aware of… the force field around your home?"

 _Force field_. Jessamine suppressed a snort. Muggles liked to use terms they understood to describe what they did not, and often, they got it quite wrong. "It was like that when I moved in. I thought it was quirky, you know. Haunted by friendly ghosts, perhaps."

"Haunted—" Coulson cut himself off, taking a deep breath. "Miss Wright, this isn't a game. I'm starting to feel like you don't quite understand your position here."

"Do enlighten me."

"You are currently a potential threat to global security. From what we have observed and deduced, you have somehow managed to use technology beyond even our capabilities to protect your home from infiltration. You are currently surrounded by twenty highly skilled S.H.I.E.L.D agents. If you are deemed to be a real threat, we will use any means to extract the specifications of your technology, and, if necessary, eliminate you." It was a remarkable feat that even as he laid out his threats, Coulson's tone remained soothingly gentle. He possessed a voice of natural calm, and he had learned to wield it well. "Do you understand, Miss Wright?"

"Completely," said Jessamine, exiting her wardrobe in an old Weasley jumper she had not worn in years. She spared a smile at Rushman, who still had her pistol cocked lazily at Jessamine. "Yet I can't help but notice that you've dodged my question. Why is S.H.I.E.L.D knocking on my door in the middle of the night?"

"I think you know exactly why."

Jessamine's amusement doubled, and it was audible in her tone. "Enlighten me."

Even through the earpiece, she could feel his disapproval emanating. "Very well," he said. "If this is how you want to play it."

"It isn't a game, Agent Coulson," she mocked.

He ignored her. "Gary Lukesworth."

"A dear friend," said Jessamine. "I hope S.H.I.E.L.D's interest isn't detrimental to his continued well-being. I do protect my friends quite fiercely."

"Then we appear to have a mutual interest in keeping Mr Lukesworth safe," said Coulson. "Perhaps we can negotiate some arrangement at S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters. One that will help both of us understand each other's capability of protecting Mr Lukesworth better."

"Perhaps," echoed Jessamine. "And what guarantee do I have that you won't kill me and toss my body into the sea?"

"We're a government agency, Miss Wright—we are bound to operate under the law."

"None, then."

"Again," said Coulson, sounding exasperated, "we are bound by the law. If you come in quietly, then there is no reason for us to act rashly."

Jessamine leaned against her wall, and looked at Rushman. The woman was still pointing a gun at her head. She raised a red eyebrow at Jessamine, cold eyes staring out in a hard, glittering gaze. "I'm so very assured," she said drily. "Very well then. Choice is but an illusion, anyway."

"Excellent," said Coulson, pleased. "Agent Rushman will escort you."

Jessamine slipped the earpiece off and tossed it to Rushman, who caught it in a swift swipe. She found herself almost envious of the agent's reflexes, which she thought were superior to even hers—and she had spent a quarter of her life dodging and deflecting curses.

"Come on then," said Rushman. She must have had another listening device on her somewhere, because she seemed to know exactly what decision Coulson and Jessamine had come to. "You first."

Jessamine hesitated. She felt the reassuring weight of her wand, Disillusioned and hidden, pressed along her forearm. Even if this was her territory, her home, to have a highly trained spy hold her gun-point while she walked did not inspire feelings of security in her. _It's going well_ , she reminded herself. S.H.I.E.L.D had not acted unexpectedly, and their encounter was inevitable. Drawing them into her home had been as close to a controlled situation as Jessamine could have—and it was under control. Even discounting her wards and the fact that Pansy was actually on full alert should anything unexpected occur, Jessamine had her wand, and several protections on her. A point-blank shot to her head would cause a nasty bruise, perhaps a concussion—but she would live. There was no need to worry. With that thought, Jessamine steeled herself. Rushman jerked her head at the door, and this time, Jessamine obliged.

Three other agents were waiting outside. They flanked Rushman as she walked Jessamine out to a black SUV with tinted windows waiting outside. It was all very cliché, mused Jessamine. She slid into the backseat, and Rushman climbed in after her, keeping her pistol aimed steadily at Jessamine. Then she pulled out a set of handcuffs—from where, Jessamine did not know, because the woman's bodysuit hid nothing—and leaned over Jessamine, expertly clasping them onto her wrists.

"Sorry about this," said Rushman insincerely.

Jessamine blinked, and that was all she could do before Rushman had pressed a cloth into her face. She tried to turn her face away, but too late—she had inhaled an entire lungful of it. The drowsiness pressed down on her with all the force of a hammer blow. Her protections kept her from losing immediate consciousness, but she could see the darkness creeping over her vision already. Her mind clouded over, her magic coiled to fight back the fog—she could reach out with it and stave off the unconsciousness for a bit longer, long enough to escape.

But no. Not yet.

Reluctantly, Jessamine let go.

* * *

The Quinjet landed in the early hours of the morning. Up above the purpled clouds, the sky was still dark and the wind icy and strong. Phil Coulson disembarked, stepping onto the Helicarrier's landing strip tiredly. He was looking forward to getting a bit of rest; he'd caught some shuteye on the jet, but it wasn't the same as a bed, even if the beds on the Helicarrier weren't very comfortable either.

Natasha, on the other hand, walked off the jet looking as poised and immaculate as ever. Not a single red curl was out of place, and she didn't even seem to have baggy eyes from lack of sleep.

"Take her to R-141," said Phil. It was one of the spare residential suites, though the term 'suite' made it sound far more luxurious than it actually was. "Make sure she's comfortable and guarded at all times. Fury wants me to debrief him now; join us after you've secured Wright. Temple, Carlson." He turned to the two agents, who straightened upon hearing their names. "You're with me."

Natasha jerked her head at another pair of agents. "You two, bring Wright and follow me. O'Brien, you're with us too. Just make sure she doesn't wake up."

"Yessir," said O'Brien, sliding over, hands in his pockets. He was deceptively at ease, but both Phil and Natasha knew he was one of S.H.I.E.L.D's best for a reason. The agents heaved a limp Jess Wright up between them, and with Natasha taking the lead, went off to secure her below.

"Any troubles?"

"Agent Hill," said Phil, turning to look at her. She had a narrow, almost pinched face, though her harsher features were softened by a rare smile. "I didn't see you there."

"Sure," said Hill, her eyes crinkling with amusement.

"Not much trouble," he said. "Not the most orthodox mission, though."

"Oh?"

"You'll hear about it in the debriefing. I'm heading in there now."

They started off at a brisk pace, weaving through S.H.I.E.L.D members who were going about their daily business. The Helicarrier was a large vessel, one designed to house a maximum of six hundred and forty individuals. They weren't at full capacity—hardly—and had only one hundred and sixty-eight agents on board, but the Helicarrier was still always busy.

Inside, away from the cold, Phil breathed a sigh of relief. Hill didn't seem bothered by it, but she was wearing a S.H.I.E.L.D-issued bodysuit, which was equipped with technology to prevent heat loss. Phil, on the other hand, being bound mostly to his desk rather than actively working on the field, only had cotton fabrics to keep him warm.

The bridge was relatively quiet when they entered—at least, as quiet as the bridge could ever be. Being the centre of all of S.H.I.E.L.D's on-field activity, it always had at least a team of ten on duty. Right now there were fifteen in the room, not including himself, Temple, Carlson, Hill and Fury, who stood in the centre of it all, a true captain in his domain.

"Agent Coulson," said Fury, looking up. His one eye narrowed at the sight of him, which was as close as Fury ever got to a genuine smile. "Good news, I hope." He was a tall, imposing man, Nick Fury. Phil remembered when he had been a fresh recruit—Fury hadn't been Director then, but he'd been one of his commanding officers. Phil had stuttered and shaken like a leaf in his presence for months. It was an embarrassing memory now, and sometimes, Fury liked to remind him of those days, just to see a blush that was now an exceedingly rare sight on Phil Coulson.

Phil's ever-present smile widened. "She's being detained in R-141," he confirmed.

"Good," murmured Fury, his gaze sweeping over his control pad. A few quick taps on his computer saw a video feed appear on the screen. It was a wide-angled view of R-141, and as they watched, Natasha entered the room with Jess Wright in tow. The woman was still unconscious. Natasha glanced up, looking directly at the camera, and gave a nod, as though she knew they were watching.

Phil had no idea how she managed to do that.

"We had an… unexpected circumstance arise when detaining her," said Phil.

Fury looked up sharply. "What?"

"She anticipated us." He frowned. "I think."

"You think?" Fury sounded incredulous, which was never a good sign. That tended to be followed by yelling and mumblings about incompetency.

"She was awake when we entered the house. Agent Romanoff noticed that she was feigning sleep."

"We have infrared for exactly that kind of thing, Coulson," snapped Fury. "You didn't notice her body temperature wasn't as low as it should be?"

"It _was_ low," said Phil. "I checked as I was talking to her. She has an abnormally low body temperature."

"How low?"

"I had her at ninety-one while we were talking."

"Ninety-one."

"That's impossible," said Hill with a frown. "She should have hypothermia at that core temperature."

Temple spoke up hesitantly, "Excuse me, sir. We noticed Wright's temperature fluctuate once or twice, but since they were only for brief moments, we assumed it was a glitch."

"You assumed," snarled Fury.

"Yes, sir," said Carlson, her voice shaking. "Although there was one instance we put in the reports; about a week ago, Agent Rickson noticed a sustained period of approximately three to four hours during which Wright's temperature fell to ninety-six point five. She was home the whole day, so we thought she might have been ill."

Fury considered this. "We know she's a possible enhanced," he said. "She might be able to control her body temperature to some degree. Put that in her file. What else?"

"We talked. She's suspicious about S.H.I.E.L.D's motives." A pause. "I think she was ready for us. She was too calm."

"We know her buddy, Dennis Creevey, has been trying to get into S.H.I.E.L.D's database. He's good, but he's not good enough to get into our system."

"Someone on the inside, maybe?" suggested Hill. Natasha walked in as she said this, and overhearing, tensed.

Phil grimaced. "Maybe."

"Check the agents who knew about the surveillance on Wright. That includes both of you, Temple, Carlson," said Fury, looking unapologetic. He glanced around the massive room, grimmer than usual. Phil shared the feeling—traitors in S.H.I.E.L.D were always an unpleasant thought. "When does she wake?"

"I'd give it another hour or two."

"Let me know when she does," said Fury. "In the meantime, get some rest, Coulson. You look dead on your feet." He glanced at Natasha, who nodded. "Agents Romanoff, Temple and Carlson can debrief me on anything else."

"Of course."


	16. 16: Killers

**[A/N]: If this chapter doesn't make it clear, I don't know anything about hacking. I know three words related to hacking: 'hacking', 'hacker' and 'mainframe'. In the future, there is a distinct possibility that I will be overusing the phrase 'I got through their mainframe' or some variants of that sentence.**

 **So. I'm apologising in advance for the hyper-fictionalised and really vague hacking that's going to go down throughout this fic. All you tecchie people who actually know something about hacking might just have an aneurysm from the amount of cringe you get from my utter lack of knowledge about hacking.**

* * *

"How is she?"

"Still unconscious. She's somewhere over Arizona right now."

Pansy nodded, knotting her ankles together in anxiety. "The spells are working then?"

"Like a charm," said Creevey with a grin.

"They're wards, not charms," she said, frowning.

"Muggle saying," he explained.

Pansy dismissed that from her mind as irrelevant. "Have we got any information on those feral Muggle beasts?"

Creevey rolled his eyes. "A bit. Names and faces go a long way. Here—" He twisted around one of his monitors, and across the screen, there were several windows open. Pansy read the names: Jason O'Brien, Gordon Temple, Leslie Carlson, Petey Rickson… There were more, and under each of the names were corresponding pictures and information, from birthdates to places of residence to hobbies and interests. Each profile went on for several pages.

"Are you sure you didn't use magic to find this?" said Pansy suspiciously.

"Pretty sure," said Creevey. "Everyone puts everything up on the internet nowadays. As long as you know where to look, their digital fingerprint will lead you like Ariadne's thread through the maze of their lives."

Pansy wrinkled her nose. "I do not understand."

"Basically, when people use the internet, they leave traces—like magical residue from a spell. If I can identify the trace and follow the path, I can know anything someone puts up on the Internet and maybe what they Googled too." Pansy's eyes glazed over. "Are you listening?"

"No."

Creevey sighed, then brought up two more profiles: Phil Coulson and Rushman. "Anyway, these three are the important ones," he said. "It's much harder to find any information on them, which I suspect is because these three are much higher up in the hierarchy. They all have paper trails—jobs, taxes, insurances—but it's all falsified. There's no way that those are their real addresses listed, but I couldn't find anything else."

"So all of this information is fake?"

"Except for O'Brien's, Temple's and Carlson's. S.H.I.E.L.D wasn't as thorough in covering them up. Not important enough, I guess."

Pansy hummed, her finger digging into the side of her jaw as she thought. "I'll place some spells in their homes, just to keep track of them. They might not be important, but they might let slip something if they think that they're secure…" She looked at a small, blue orb that sat on the desk next to Creevey. If she listened closely, she could hear Jessamine's slow, deep breaths, recorded and transmitted by a ward spell on her person. "I'll check in after I set up each place."

Creevey's eyes were heavy on her, and she nearly cringed at the weight of his sympathy buried in them. "I could go instead," he offered. "You can stay here and monitor the situation."

"No," said Pansy, though the offer was tempting. "You're more useful here than I am." Unsaid was her need to be doing something— _anything_ —instead of sitting at a desk, waiting and useless.

Thankfully, Creevey merely nodded. "I'll text you if anything happens."

Pansy took a breath. "Thank you."

He smiled, and though it was reserved and sedate, his eyes warmed. It made her want to hit him.

* * *

Jessamine came to consciousness slowly, blearily and sluggishly. A heavy fog pressed over her mind, and it took her a while to remember where she was. She grunted as she stirred, her limbs shifting against cheap, plastic sheets.

Dennis's voice burst into life in her ear. "Good to hear you're awake. Don't say anything. You might be watched."

Jessamine did not overtly respond. It was almost given, really, that she was being observed. It would be ridiculous to expect otherwise. But in her grogginess, she had nearly forgotten and silently thanked Dennis for reminding her.

Her room was small and sparsely furnished, a narrow desk with a computer atop it, and a hard metal chair to one corner. Her bed was on the other side of the room, stiff and uncomfortable. Her back ached from it. Despite being a government agency with access to military technology and state-of-the-art facilities, they clearly hadn't cared for comfort beyond the basic necessities.

"Nothing's happened so far as I can tell. You're on some kind of aircraft, I think. You're moving around a bit—sort of in circles and not really following any roads; you're nearly over the border of Mexico right now. They put you in R-141, a residential suite and left you alone after that. It's… nearly five in L.A. now, so you've been out for about three to four hours."

Jessamine gave an appreciative hum. Two souls were stationed outside her door, though a few more occasionally wandered by. They were wary and alert. Her assumption that they had her under watch was confirmed when she spotted a well-hidden security camera.

Still quite disgruntled from their treatment of her, she threw it a filthy look.

"The redhead who identified herself as 'Rushman' probably gave you a fake name, but I don't know what her real name is," said Dennis. "I'm guessing that she's one of their top agents, based on how little information there is on her that I can find. Probably heavily into espionage and black ops, given the way she infiltrated the house last night. Phil Coulson appears to be her superior. Again, I can't find much on him that isn't faked. He reports to a man known as 'Fury'."

Jessamine pursed her lips at the end of it, disappointed of how little information Dennis had managed to uncover. Most of what he had told her were things she had already deduced herself—the only real piece of information was the name 'Fury'.

"I know," said Dennis apologetically, as though her silence had been a clear indicator of her dissatisfaction. "But S.H.I.E.L.D's database is even more protected than any other system I've seen—maybe even the Pentagon. It's insane. I need an in—do you still have the stuff I gave you?"

She couldn't feel the weight of her mokeskin pouch over her sternum. Her charms had apparently not hidden it well enough, but Jessamine hadn't wanted to layer it so heavily in spells. With the glamour spells and protections over her wand, any more magic on her person might have caused S.H.I.E.L.D's machines to spontaneously combust—and that did no good for neither them nor her. Jessamine clicked her tongue twice in negation.

"Damn," said Dennis, just as Jessamine noticed that three souls had stopped outside her door, in addition to the two that had been guarding her. She looked up, the door sliding open to reveal Coulson, Rushman and an unknown agent. A woman, dressed in a skin-tight suit like Rushman, tall and severe.

Coulson was the first to speak. "Good morning, Miss Wright," he said. "My associates—you know Agent Rushman. The other one is Agent Hill." He held a breakfast tray in his hands, which he laid next to her on the bed. Her magic inspected it—it was clean. "I hope you can forgive us for the manner in which you were brought here."

Jessamine picked up a bun. She lathered it with butter, taking her time in doing so. The silence stretched on until the only sound was Jessamine's chewing.

"We will be willing to answer some of your questions," tried Coulson.

Jessamine nodded. "Where did you get this bread from?"

He continued to smile placidly, while a look of disbelief flitted across Hill's face. He was learning how she liked to play their games, observed Jessamine. "We have it specially made."

"To taste atrocious?"

A glint of genuine amusement lit in Coulson's eye. "Some might say, yes."

Jessamine gave a gentle laugh, dropping the bun back onto the tray. She stood, brushing herself off before sitting down on the only chair in the room. "It was disconcerting to be drugged unconscious, I admit," she said. "But not entirely unexpected. I think my estimate of you and your organisation might have fallen had you not done that."

Coulson smiled and murmured into his wrist. A few moments later, two men brought in a table, followed by three chairs, setting the new furniture down before Jessamine. He sat in the middle, with Rushman on his right and Hill on his left. "We might be here for a while," said Coulson. "If our actions were not so unexpected, I hope we can remain on good terms."

"Not quite," said Jessamine. She remembered the disorientation and vulnerability she had felt. It had been a while since she had been placed in a position like that—at the mercy of potential hostiles. The steel in her voice must have been clear, for Rushman's hand drifted closer to her holstered pistol, and Hill tensed. Coulson only narrowed his eyes. "I am understanding, not forgiving."

"Too bad," murmured Coulson. "What do you intend to do then?"

"Well, I would like to leave," said Jessamine. Coulson bowed his head in apology. "I thought so. My things then, as a courtesy. Surely you can manage that much?"

"Of course," said Coulson, glancing at Hill. The woman strode over to the door and knocked once. It slid open, and another agent brought in a clear plastic baggie. Hill tossed it to Jessamine, who caught it deftly, though with a chastising look at how carelessly her belongings were dealt with.

She gave the bag a brief glance. With satisfaction, she noticed that her mokeskin pouch was lying in there, untouched. Her spell must have worked then—it looked like nothing more than an unassuming pendant to Muggles.

"Where am I?" asked Jessamine, slipping her pouch over her neck. Apart from that, there were only a pair of earrings and a ring that they had taken from her. Both carried minor protective enchantments, and she felt more secure with them on her.

"You are at one of S.H.I.E.L.D's many bases. This one is one of our more well-used ones, and is the base of our field operations."

"And where is this base located?" Her magic thinned out, spreading through the hallways and rooms of the base, guided by the presence of souls moving around. There were hundreds of them, and this was only one of their bases. Jessamine kept her face blank, but she was reminded unpleasantly of the scope of S.H.I.E. operations. It was obviously very well-funded, their agents highly-trained and they were capable of working outside the limits of the law. Three facts that while did not make her fearful, throttled at her options. At this point, Jessamine had few consolations, one being that they knew as much about her as she did about them. And that they were trying to be as amicable towards her as one could possibly be after having just kidnapped her.

Coulson smiled. "That is classified."

"What is S.H.I.E.L.D?"

"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Department," said Coulson in a single, smooth breath. "We're a security organisation, albeit one with… specialised interests."

"I don't suppose you'll tell me what those specialised interests are?" said Jessamine, raising an eyebrow.

"No, Miss Wright."

"But it has, of course, to do with Gary," she said. "And what exactly is it about Gary that has you so interested? Perhaps it has to do with his past? He told me that he was a lawyer—to his knowledge, that is the truth. But of course, you know it's a lie."

Coulson's smile strained. Jessamine saw him weigh his options—on one hand, he could press her for her source of information, admitting in the process that Gary's past was indeed a lie. That in itself would be telling, as it informed her that S.H.I.E.L.D was, to some extent, involved in changing Gary's memories, a troubling prospect. On the other, he could deny any knowledge about this, and be unable to find out anything beyond what Jessamine had divulged. In the end, he chose silence.

Jessamine continued, her fingers drumming on the back of her hand in thought, "What, then, is hidden in his past? That is where I assume your interest in him lies." She decided to test the waters, playing another one of her cards. "Or perhaps it's his fascinating… skillset." A look flickered through Coulson's eyes, one that Jessamine nearly missed. Her lips parted in surprise. "Oh. You don't know."

"What don't we know?" asked Coulson stiffly.

Jessamine laughed, loud and delighted. "I think I've told you enough about Gary," she said. "If you don't know, then it's hardly my duty to inform you."

"We both have an interest in protecting him, Miss Wright," said Coulson. "This would work better if you share your information."

"Share my information when you won't willingly divulge even the tiniest detail of what you know?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D is better equipped to protect Mr Lukesworth. We have the resources and the manpower—you, Miss Wright, are in your words, nothing more than a 'glorified secretary'."

"That is true," agreed Jessamine. "That also reminds me that I need to be in for work in about two hours."

"The information—"

"We can talk about Gary all day," she said, cutting clear across Coulson. "But truthfully, I will say nothing more on the topic—not when it's clear your information on Gary is… flawed."

He pursed his lips but seemed to recognise the steel in her eyes. She would not bend. "Something else then," he said, changing tack. Jessamine looked suspiciously at him—he had given in far too easily. A smile grew on his face, unassuming yet dangerous. "Perhaps it's time for some of our questions to be answered."

Jessamine crossed her legs and tucked her heels in. Her hands folded over her lap. "Perhaps," she allowed.

"Let's start with something simple then. What is your name, for the record?"

"I would've thought you'd know that, given how often you've called me Miss Wright."

"Answer the question please."

She rolled her eyes. "Jess Wright."

"Age?"

"Twenty-five."

"Family?"

"Mother, Veronica Wright."

"No siblings?"

"No." It was easy to see where Coulson was taking this. Ask her questions at a rapid-fire pace, and slowly edge towards more valuable information.

"Father?"

"Cancer. Twelve years ago."

"What kind?"

"Liver."

"Country of origin."

"England."

"You moved quite suddenly, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I think my mother thought Dad could get better treatment in the States."

"You're not sure?"

"We moved fourteen years ago. I forget things."

"Somehow," said Coulson, looking at her intently, "I don't think you forget a lot."

Jessamine smiled. "Then perhaps your estimate of me is mistaken."

"And your mother. How is she?"

"Well enough. I see her once in a while for tea."

"Only once in a while?"

"We don't get along."

"Yes, she said the same."

Jessamine's fist tightened just a fraction, but in a room with three well-trained spies, the motion did not go unnoticed. _Damn_ , thought Jessamine. The gleam in Coulson's eye set her nerves against each other. "You spoke to my mother?"

"Yes," said Coulson. "She was quite forthcoming."

"Shite," muttered Dennis in her ear.

Jessamine fixed a pleasant smile on her face. "I hope she wasn't too rude? She's always been quite a bitch towards me."

"She didn't have anything nice to say about you," agreed Coulson. "'Manipulative' and 'conceited' were often used… along with other less polite synonyms."

It was unlikely that Veronica had divulged anything that might hint at magic, decided Jessamine. The woman was a bitch, but she was smarter than to risk threatening the Statute of Secrecy for her petty resentment. "Yes, that sounds like dear old Mum."

"There was something else too."

"Oh?"

"She is afraid of you. When we pressed for more, she fell silent and began to show signs of panic," said Coulson. He leaned forwards. "Why would a mother hate and fear her own daughter?"

"I cannot speak for her so-called fear," said Jessamine. "But Mum has always hated me for the fact that she had to work hard to feed and clothe me after Dad died. She only did so out of courtesy to my father, I think—I remember he actually did love me quite a bit. Mother, on the other hand… I think she would have much rather I'd died instead of Dad."

"That doesn't explain why she is afraid—terrified, even—of you," said Coulson. "It took a lot of persuasion to get her to even talk to us."

"As I've said," said Jessamine. "I don't know why she's afraid of me. I like to think I've been quite a dutiful daughter these past few years, despite what she was like to me."

For the first time in the interview, Hill spoke up. Her voice was hard and flat, without the softened edge that accompanied Coulson's. Her words were direct, slashing through to the heart of the matter imprecisely, blunderingly. "Here's the thing, Miss Wright. It's our business to know when people are lying. They have tells—prolonged eye contact, dilated pupils, an involuntary twitch… You're nearly the best liar I've ever seen—but I've seen the best. And as good as you are, it's still clear to me that you're lying through your teeth."

Jessamine smiled thinly. "Perhaps you are not as well-trained as you think you are. I am telling you the truth—my mother, on the other hand, is a far more experienced liar. Unless you have not seen her medical history?"

"We have," cut in Coulson.

"And? Did that not create some doubt in you? Bouts of anger. Depression. Volatile behaviour. Paranoia… and compulsive lying."

"I've seen her terror, Miss Wright," replied Coulson. "That's not a symptom of her mental condition. That is justified fear against another human being."

"She's unstable," said Jessamine bluntly. "She would do anything to turn you—anyone—against me."

Rushman spoke, her presence suddenly blooming. Where before she was half-buried in her stillness and quiet, now she was at the forefront, impossible to dismiss. "You said you didn't get along with your mother."

"She doesn't like me, I don't like her," said Jessamine with an idle flick of her hand. Her mokeskin pouch shifted slightly over her sternum. "She took care out of me for love for my father, I take care of her out of duty to the memory of him. We're quite happy to see as little of each other as possible."

"And you only see each other for an occasional tea?"

"And if she needs money."

"How much does she ask for?"

"A few thousand each time. Once, she managed to wheedle fifty thousand out of me."

"And where did you get so much money from?"

"Dead, rich aunt."

"Isn't it a burden? Having to support a mother who neither loves you nor you her?"

Jessamine raised an eyebrow. "What are you trying to suggest, Agent _Rushman_?" Her voice took on a mocking lilt towards the end.

"It would be nice, wouldn't it?" said Rushman, her expression gentle, as though to lull Jessamine into a sense of comfort, and her voice was cool and soothing. "If she turned up dead?"

Jessamine's smile was a shadow that stole across her face, disappearing as quickly as it came. "But she won't."

Rushman's eyes shuttered. There was a small pause, before she said, "No, I guess she won't."

* * *

Fury settled into his seat with a sigh. Before him stood Coulson, Romanoff and Hill. "Opinions."

"I don't like her," said Hill instantly. "She's far too unpredictable. She's too independent to work with us unless we have something to offer her, and right now, we have nothing."

"Coulson?"

The agent looked tired, as he always did after speaking to Wright. In Fury's mind, her name was increasingly associated with a sense of dread. "If we continue to detain her, we might be able to get more out of her. But for now, it's clear that we cannot control Wright," said Coulson. "We have no leverage aside from her freedom, but…"

"But what?"

"But I have a feeling that she'll only stay as long as she's entertained."

Fury scowled at the implication that Wright could easily break in and out of S.H.I.E.L.D's defences. Part of him wanted to deny what Coulson was saying—the logical part. But he'd learned that in this line of work, it was sometimes better to trust your instinct, or as in this case, the instincts of your subordinates. And Coulson had impeccable instincts. "Double the guard on her room," he ordered. "What did you make of what she said about Lukesworth?"

For a long moment, Coulson said nothing. Then, "I think she was telling the truth. We know what kind of research Lukesworth was involved in. It's possible that it was a success—that he did manage to become an enhanced but it did not manifest in him until now."

"Why?" asked Romanoff, her dark eyes narrowed in a critical look. "Why did it manifest only when Wright came into play?"

Coulson shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know."

Fury resisted the urge to groan. "Something else to try and get out of Wright," he said. "For now, let's focus on what we did manage to get from her. Her mother, for example—Wright didn't want us to talk to her. Find out why. And Romanoff, I don't know what you were trying to pull with that play of yours in there, but what did you get from it?"

"Sir?"

"You practically accused her of intending to kill her mother."

Romanoff nodded, and said bluntly, "She's killed before. Wright didn't even flinch at the insinuation. And that look on her face? She's a killer—she's murdered in cold-blood before, and the only reason she isn't going to kill Veronica Wright is that she knows we'll be watching." There was a hint of grudging respect in her voice that made Fury tense.

He glanced at the other two agents. Hill, despite her strong condemnation earlier, looked vaguely sceptical. Coulson, on the other hand, just looked wearier. Mentally, Fury made a note to give him a couple of days off after the whole debacle was done and dusted. "You're sure?" he asked Romanoff.

There was a twinge of discontent in the muscle that jumped under her eye. She did not like being doubted. "I've lived around killers all my life, sir," said Romanoff evenly. "And Jess Wright is a killer, of that I have no doubt."

"Well then," said Fury. "That's a problem."

He turned around, staring at the screen where there was an image of Jess Wright lying on her bed, looking bored. She was still, but he could see her breath expanding in her chest.

Then he frowned, blinking once.

Wright's silhouette flickered for a moment.

Fury stilled, his lone eye staring hard at the screen, unrelenting.

In the video feed, Wright's form flickered again.

His blood ran cold as the implications hit him. If the feed was compromised, that meant two things: one, Wright had either escaped or was in the process of escaping; two and most importantly, somehow, she was in their system _._

Fury swore, his hand flying to his pistol and withdrawing it. In an instant, Hill was at his side, her own gun unholstered. "We're checking on Wright," he said, his voice hard and cold. "Now."


	17. 17: The Curtain Rises

**A/N: I'm uploading this from my phone, so please forgive any shitty formatting. I'm also unable to access from my laptop for the next two or so weeks because the country I'm in has banned it : It did not, however, ban the app. But if anyone reading from a desktop/laptop notices something dodgy about the formatting, please let me know.**

 _… hope you understand that the expectations placed upon me after the war were suffocating. I'm fine now—better than fine, even. In this new place, I'm finding myself able to breathe much more freely than when I still lived in London. Please, Hermione, do not fret. I am happy._

 _I would still appreciate, of course, any news of yourself that you care to share. Is Ronald well? Last I heard, Angelina had successfully become pregnant. I wish her good fortune and health. I know it has been difficult for her and George to conceive. I have also enclosed a small charm of protection I had made for her. It should encourage her baby's growth and her own body's strength in this delicate time._

 _Your friend,_

 _J._

 _P.S. Please let Molly know that she needn't worry. I am keeping good health and eating well._

The scrawl of the nib on yellowed parchment came to a stop. Jessamine returned her quill to the inkwell, blowing dry the wet ink on her letter. When that was done, she sealed the parchment in a heavy envelope, pressing her stamp into the hot wax.

All throughout this, Pansy's glares burned at the back of her head relentlessly, her friend's simmering fury so strong that Jessamine could practically taste its bitterness.

She did not, however, address Pansy's anger. Nor had she since the S.H.I.E.L.D incident ended several days ago. She was confident that Pansy would get over it, and when that inevitably occurred, she would be relieved to no longer have to put up with passive-aggressive remarks and long bouts of silent treatment. It would be a relief for Dennis too, who had found himself in the unfavourable position of playing mediator between his employer and the subject of his affections.

Jessamine clicked her tongue, beckoning a regal, tawny owl forth. The bird held out his leg obligingly, wide amber eyes watching as she tied the letter to it. "To Hermione," she told him, feeding him a few treats for the long journey he had ahead of him. A Disillusionment Charm washed over him. He hooted, giving her a baleful glare just before the charm obscured his face. "Sorry." Another hoot, distinctly disgruntled, then he was off, soaring out of the open window. Once he was but a distant fleck in grey skies, she rolled her shoulders, her gaze coming to a rest on Pansy. No longer was her friend's attention on her, but now fixedly upon the filed and papers she was organising.

Jessamine noted the tension in Pansy's shoulders, and the lips drawn taut and pressed white. She was still upset—very much so. Perhaps a few more days until her anger blew over. Jessamine could afford that to her friend at least, even if she found the required patience rather irksome.

She turned to Dennis then. "How goes your search?" He, too, didn't reply. "Dennis."

Jessamine resisted the urge to groan aloud—was he giving her the silent treatment too?

She tried once more, flicking a Stinging Hex for good measure. " _Dennis_."

"Ow! What?" said Dennis, looking irritable.

Jessamine narrowed her eyes at him. He didn't look angry—just annoyed and confused. "I've been calling you."

"Oh," he said, blinking. "Didn't realise. Sorry."

She sighed. "Have you found anything new?"

"Every moment spent in S.H.I.E.L.D's database is a discovery," said Dennis, glancing back at his computer distractedly. "I thought I'd seen the extent of the shit the government gets up to—but S.H.I.E.L.D? They're on a whole other level."

Jessamine gestured impatiently for him to continue.

"Well, I'll start with our friends," said Dennis. "Agent Phil Coulson. Largely a desk operative, and manages information acquisition and directs field operations. Forty-six-years-old. He was previously a field operative, and retired sometime in the 90s. Currently, he is the main point of contact for two of their top agents, one of whom you know.

"Agent Natalia Romanova, who prefers to be known by Natasha Romanoff. A former assassin for the Red Room, a notorious organisation that essentially brain-washes little girls into becoming ruthless killing machines. She was one of their best before she turned on them. Wiped out the entire operation in a year. Absolutely deadly. Her age is unknown, but estimated to be around twenty-eight. Specialises in espionage and assassination, as you might have guessed.

"Director Nicholas Joseph Fury. Here's what he looks like." With a click, Dennis summoned up an image of an imposing, one-eyed man. Jessamine made a face. Something about him reminded her disturbingly of Mad-Eye Moody, though they differed greatly in physical appearance, Fury tall where Moody had been stout, lean where Moody had been plump. Dark where Moody had been pale. "Fought in the Vietnam War. Recruited by S.H.I.E.L.D in the 80s and worked his way up pretty quickly from there. I've got an entire list of the missions he's taken part of since starting S.H.I.E.L.D that you can take a look at later."

"Very good," said Jessamine, pleased. "You have their whole system then?"

"Yup," said Dennis with a grin. "Mind, I can't hack their systems again like I did to distract them on the Helicarrier. But I have their files, and every minute detail that they know is right here. Nifty little thing, that device I gave you."

Jessamine indulged him. "What was it?"

"Well, since you asked," said Dennis, sitting up straighter. Pansy snorted, but when Jessamine looked over, the woman was determinedly staring down at her desk. "It's called a Magic Hacker. Creative, I know. A mate of mine got it from a Soviet wizard back in the 90s, and he was the one who named it. But it's what it sounds like—it's Muggle technology combined with magic. The Muggle technology allows me to hijack an entire network if it's attached to one of the computer systems within the network. The magic fused into it boosts its capabilities and makes it damn near untraceable. It's the most useful thing, and bloody rare too. The Soviet wizard vanished a few years ago, so they don't make this anymore—you did remember to take it back with you?" He stared at her, looking suddenly nervous.

"Don't fret your pretty head, darling," said Jessamine with a roll of her eyes. She withdrew the device, a tiny, circular thing that was barely the size of her fingernail, and flicked it at Dennis. He caught it with a loud swear.

"Christ, Jessamine, what if I'd dropped it?" he asked, running his fingers over the thing as though it was a precious gem.

"You didn't," she said easily. "Is that all the information you've found?"

"Well, as far as I can tell, they haven't a clue about magic. There's a whole bunch of other stuff too, but I haven't had the time to parse through all of it," said Dennis. "I told you, we have their entire system. Now it's just a matter of actually reading the information—and there's a lot of it. S.H.I.E.L.D is everywhere."

"Comforting," said Jessamine. But the smile on her lips was a smug one. "Keep looking then. I'm off to work—Stane wasn't very pleased with me when I turned up late yesterday."

"Sure."

Jessamine glanced at Pansy. "Get Pansy to help you; it'll be a much more productive use of her time than pretending to read about"—she peered over Pansy's shoulder—"Transmutation: Possibility or Myth. Possibility, darling. Obviously."

She left in a swirl of robes, and pretended not to hear the quiet mutter of, "Bitch," as the library door swung shut behind her.

—

It was a wet Thursday afternoon when Phil Coulson found himself sitting in front of Jess Wright again. There was a cup of warm tea before him, and one in front of Wright.

Phil had arrived at Stark Industries half an hour ago, at four in the afternoon sharp. Fifteen minutes later, he had seated himself in front of Jess Wright, who had politely offered him a cup of tea. "No coffee?" he had asked.

"I'm afraid not," she had replied.

A part of Phil had felt, inexplicably, wrong-footed by that. It was not the truth, he felt sure, though he could not for the life of him explain why. He had wondered if there had been something in the drink, but watching her prepare the tea carefully, he had nothing suspicious.

Yet, part of him could not allay his suspicions. Her enhanced skillset was unknown to him—her accomplishments already demonstrated a wide range of abilities, from whatever power she had worked on her L.A. mansion to the escape from the Helicarrier. What it extended to, he could not be sure, but it meant that he was not prepared to drink anything she had made. Thus, they sat in a long silence, their expressions politely bland, and their gazes weighted in the knowledge of the game they played.

Phil, for his part, spent the long silence studying Wright. She looked unruffled, as poised as usual. Not a single strand of hair was out of place, and her black office suit was pressed and uncreased. She had not looked surprised to see him.

He idly wondered what she saw when she looked at him. He doubted he looked as polished as she—it had been a hectic week, due in large part to her though she did not seem to have had lost any sleep at that. Phil, on the other hand, had caught less than twelve hours of sleep in the past four days.

It was he who broke the ice first, as, he noted disgruntledly, it often was. It had been thirty-six minutes since he sat down in front of her, which was at least, an improvement from the previous stretch of twenty-nine minutes. "How are you doing, Miss Wright?" he asked.

"Quite well, thank you," said Wright. "Though I have noticed that your friends are still lingering around my neighbourhood—I could do without them."

Which, thought Phil, meant that she did not really care. She would not have made a serious request so early in the conversation; she was still testing the waters, as was he. "I cannot make any promises, but I can speak to someone, if you like," said Phil.

Wright smiled. "Oh, that's quite alright," she said. "We both know nothing will come of it. Why bother? I would hate to add more on top of your workload, especially when you seem so tired."

Phil's lips thinned. "It's been a busy few days."

"Nothing to do with the little incident on Monday, I hope," said Wright.

"Oh no," lied Phil. "Not at all. Though since you brought that up—I have been wondering, how did you manage to pull it off?"

"The escape? A magician's secret, unfortunately."

Phil gave a mirthless laugh to that. "Of course."

"Might I assume, then, that since you haven't come to take me into custody again, that your Director Fury has agreed to back off?" said Wright.

"Yes," said Phil, a not-quite scowl ghosting across his face. "Yes, you may assume that."

She smirked, then glanced down at the table. "Are you going to drink your tea?"

He blinked. "I don't think so," he said. "I'm more of a coffee person, really."

"Pity," said Wright, and she picked his cup up and, with no hesitation, drank. "Was there anything else you needed, Agent Coulson? An appointment with Mr Stane, perhaps? I understand that S.H.I.E.L.D has been trying to get in touch with Mr Stark for debriefing… perhaps Mr Stane can be of more assistance in that respect. He's ever so helpful when it comes to Mr Stark."

Phil thought of what information S.H.I.E.L.D had on Obadiah Stane—sparse, for their standards, but enough to know that Stane's activities weren't as legal as they appeared to be. His crimes, however, were somewhat mundane for their scope of interests, and Fury had just ordered for the information to be passed onto the FBI. Regardless, if it was in their system, he was sure Wright knew of it too.

She just didn't seem to care that she was working for a traitor and a murderer.

Distantly, Phil recalled Natasha's words: _she's a killer_. Looking into Wright's cold eyes, blue and brittle as ice, he believed in that statement whole-heartedly.

"No, thank you," said Phil finally. "Though if you do see Mr Stark a mention will not go unappreciated. Perhaps at the benefit tonight. Will you be attending it?"

"I doubt it," said Wright. "As far as I know, neither will Mr Stark be attending, but well… you know Mr Stark."

There was a brief pause, in which it became clear that they were both at an impasse. Phil glanced at his watch. An hour and twelve minutes. He cleared his throat. "Well, thank you for your time, Miss Wright."

"It was my pleasure," she replied. "Get some rest, Agent Coulson."

They shook hands, and Phil went on his way. He took the lift down, exited the building and got into a non-descript, sleek black car. Only when he was a mile out from Stark Industries did Phil pick up his phone and make a call to a burner number.

The phone rang twice. "She's clear," he said into the receiver.

On the other end, Fury cursed.

"What happens now?" said Phil.

"We'll have to get some _friends_ ," said Fury, contempt curling at the final word.

—

 _3 months later_

Jessamine stepped out of the car to an impressive scene. Rising steps overlaid by a heavy red carpet, laughter and chatter an explosive noise in her ears. Bright lights flashed from cameras, professional and mobile. On the streets, passers-by gathered, snapping photos of the prestigious event, whooping like hyenas leaping onto prey when they saw someone particularly famous. The sheer size, noise and scale of it took her aback.

So this, thought Jessamine, was what one of the most prestigious events in Los Angeles looked like.

A warm breath brushed against her ear, courtesy of Stane who had followed her out of the car. "Keep close to me." His hand pressed on the small of her back, and Jessamine fixed a smile on her lips. He spoke again, louder, brighter, "Justin! How have you been?"

Jessamine recognised the thin, reedy man in an instant. Justin Hammer turned his full attention onto Stane, arms sliding off the shoulders of two women, and a sly grin curving his lips. "Obadiah," he said, eyes glimmering with delight. "Didn't think you were coming—thought you might be hanging around at home, babysitting Tony."

"Ah, well," said Stane, taking the jab in stride. "Tony has Pepper." Hammer's eyes slid over to Jessamine, raking her form. She kept her smile cool. "Apologies—this is my assistant, Jess Wright."

"Jess," said Hammer, his lips quirking up into a roguish smile. "Definitely a pleasure. You're Obie's assistant? Really? Kind of a waste, don't you think?"

"Come on, Justin," said Stane, chuckling. "That's harsh."

Hammer shrugged. "It's true. This one's going to drop dead anytime now, and what will you do then, Jess?"

"Find a new job," said Jessamine easily.

Stane's chuckle turned into full-bellied laughter. "She's feisty," he said. "Good seeing you, Justin." A slight, added pressure of his hand directed her into a slow walk. Hammer waved them off, and returned to his conversation in an instant.

In truth, Jessamine was not even supposed to be at the benefit. She'd only been told to prepare for the benefit three hours ago by Stane. She had surmised quickly that his daughter had cancelled on him and left him to hang dry. Thus she had found herself stealing a set of dress robes from Pansy's closet and altering it with a few, well-placed charms so that it would not look out of place in a Muggle setting. The grey silk wrapped around her waist more tightly, a layer of outer robes shed, and the high collar turned to clinging black lace that spread in thin spirals along the length of her arms. She had kept the dress robes' length, allowing the fabric to graze the floor's surface.

Jessamine had left the house before Pansy realised what horrors had been inflicted onto her dress robes. She might have felt more badly about it were Pansy not still persisting in her cold shouldering. Her ire was now stretching nearly a full week longer than Jessamine had anticipated.

The benefit—a glorified party, really—whirled on around them. More than once, Jessamine was nearly blinded by a sudden camera flash, and she'd had to wait patiently at the side while reporters asked Stane questions about Stark. A few times, she had had to endure them asking about her relationship with Stane as well, and their not-too-subtle implications of an ongoing affair between them. Usually when they found out she was merely his assistant and nothing more, they lost all interest.

"Mr Stane, what will Stark Industries become now that Tony Stark has shut down the weapons manufacturing division? Will you shut down?" Yet another question hollered by an overeager reporter.

Stane stopped, and gave his scripted reply. Jessamine was impressed by the deftness with which he handled reporters. He did not act as though they were asking him questions he had already been asked hundreds of times before, merely cycled through his responses as appropriate with an expression of keen interest.

"Stark Industries has always been a company with diverse interests and investments. We've always supported research into other areas outside of weapons manufacturing, and it is to those areas that we will now channel our newly freed funding and manpower," Stane said pleasantly. "I am confident in Stark Industries' ability to pivot to a focus on more peaceful technology. Despite our—ah—reputation in the weapons manufacturing industry, we are not simply about that. Our retreat from weapons manufacturing has been long in the works, as a matter of fact, though I'll admit Tony pulled us out a bit more abruptly than any of us expected." He gave a wry chuckle, light, confident and easy. It drew a smile from the reporter. "But for a long time now, the board has been aligning our long-term vision to be one where weapons manufacturing is one small part of what Stark Industries is all about. We've been adjusting our resources and hiring strategies according to that vision, and I'm proud to say—"

He cut off, and it was clear to Jessamine why. A wave of screaming and delight wafted from the edges of the crowd. Through the gaps between people, she spotted Stark in a finely-cut suit, striding with his head high toward them.

"Jess, take over please," Stane murmured, pausing only to spare the reporter an apologetic glance. Jessamine wove into his freshly vacated spot and gave the reporter a thin smile.

"My apologies," she said, keeping peripherally aware of Stane and Stark. The latter's appearance was certainly a surprise, especially as she knew for a fact that he had not received an invite. Here was a man that had probably gotten even less of a notice than she to the event. "Where were we?"

"Stark Industries' current vision," the reporter prompted. To his credit, he seemed neither fazed nor offended by the switch of his interviewees.

"Ah yes—Stark Industries current vision sees us shifting our focus to green energies, AI technology and software development. Mr Stark and Mr Stane have already increased funding into researching the arc reactor developed several years ago, in hopes of making the energy more sustainable and efficient. In the long term, we plan to see it available across the country…"

Out of the corner of her eye, Jessamine spotted Phil Coulson at the top of the stairs. She chanced a glance at him, and he gave her a nod of polite acknowledgement.

She tipped her head toward him. She had come to the benefit expecting to be bored, but already this was proving quite interesting.


	18. 18: Daphne

**A/N: A significantly longer chapter than I'd expected. This one nears 6000 words, which makes it the longest chapter by far... Jessamine was unexpectedly chatty this chapter, and more is revealed about her past.**

* * *

"One vodka martini and a sidecar, please," Jessamine said, sidling up to the bar's marble counter. She felt Stark's prickling gaze on the side of her face. She did not shift beneath his focused intensity, though the urge lingered.

The bartender nodded, accepting both orders coolly even as he prepared four other drink orders at once. Idly, Jessamine looked out at the ballroom. Soft music played, weaving a gentle lullaby with the sound of chatter. She had lost Coulson somewhere in the crowd, but she could feel him flitting about somewhere to her left. A few more familiar presences nudged at the edge of her senses, but she gently pushed them aside, focusing instead on her employer. This was the first time since his return that she had been in close proximity with him, and she took the opportunity to examine the changed that had burned through him.

Jessamine felt it the instant she reached out—where before there had been flecks of gleaming, shimmering seeds of gold entwined in his soul, now on those golden vines hung flowers on the cusp of blooming. Destiny's hold on him had grown stronger; he had been set on the path, and there was no turning back from wherever the end goal was. So, too, had the core of steel within him grown, thickening into a solid, unbreakable strength even as darkness crawled over it like a thin layer of rust. A roaring fire burned in him, forging him and remaking him anew in its molten heat.

She drew back, her nostrils flaring as she inhaled sharply. An echo of smoke and ash curled in her nostrils before, reluctantly, she pulled herself away from her immersion. At last, Jessamine acknowledged him, dipping her head as she murmured, "Mr Stark."

"Jess, wasn't it?" Stark said. Jessamine noted that he stood a relative distance away, an invisible wall wrapped around him. She shifted her weight, her shoulder inching closer to his. Ever so slightly, he stiffened. "It's been a while."

"Quite. I heard your vacation was unpleasant."

He snorted. "Unpleasant." An ugly darkness twisted the word, bitterness and whispers of sleepless nights and restless dreams in one. "That's one way to put it."

Jessamine paused, eyeing him for a moment as she weighed her options. "You've recovered for the most part, I see," she said carefully.

"Yeah, I haven't lost any limbs or God forbid, my enterprising mind, as the press might have you believe," Stark said.

"Tabloids tend to run wild when you disappear for several months immediately after a kidnapping," Jessamine agreed. "It's best to give them scraps rather than nothing."

"Scraps," Stark said with a snort. "You make them sound like animals."

"Tabloid reporters _are_ animals, as far as I'm concerned."

Stark cracked a smile. "You're friendlier than I remember."

"You're less irritating than I remember."

"Life or death situations, you know," Stark said flippantly. "Makes you see the priorities in your life and all that jazz."

"And what was it you found, Mr Stark?"

He looked at her oddly, a flicker of surprise delaying his response. For a moment, she thought he might offer another flippant remark to divert the conversation, but instead he said, "That… I don't want to be the person I was before."

Jessamine hummed. "What was wrong with that man?"

"You tell me," Stark said, quirking his lips. His discomfort was obvious but he smoothed it over well enough. "You've disliked me since day one."

"I wouldn't say dislike," Jessamine said. "You were entertaining."

"Thanks," he said dryly. "Good to know I was about as interesting to you as a dancing monkey."

"A very talented one."

"Vodka martini and a sidecar," the bartender said, interrupting smoothly. She smiled, thanking him.

"Sidecar, huh? Obie's favourite. He sent you here to fetch his drinks like a good little assistant?" Stark said.

"He's dallying with reporters outside," she said, taking a sip of her vodka martini. "I was quite happy to be away from all that… schmoozing."

"Smart. So. If you don't mind me asking, how did you go from admin to Obie's own personal assistant? I've been telling him he needed to get one for years."

Jessamine pursed her lips. "He was impressed with my skills in the aftermath of your kidnapping," she said plainly. If he tensed at her words, she did not notice it. "It was quite a lot of chaos—Tony Stark kidnapped under the US military's watch. A bit of a nightmare, as you can imagine. I ended up having to shore up a lot of loose ends and working with Miss Potts a bit. Mr Stane ran across me while I was in a meeting with Miss Potts, and well… I was hired shortly after."

"Must have been one hell of a meeting."

"Not really," she said. "The thing about Mr Stane… He likes acquisitions and trophies. And I was a living trophy for him to acquire. Quite a catch, he must have thought."

"I'm not sure I follow," Stark said, his brows furrowed.

Jessamine smiled sympathetically. She turned to face him fully. "He recognised me, you see. He knew that you had become interested in me just before you left for Afghanistan."

"So, what? You're saying that Obadiah took you on because I was interested in you? That doesn't make any sense. I mean, no offense, but I've been interested in plenty of women and he didn't hire them."

"Mr Stane isn't interested in women you've 'conquered', Mr Stark," Jessamine said with a humourless laugh. "Perhaps you should speak to Miss Potts as well about her interactions with Mr Stane during your kidnapping. It might prove… enlightening."

"Look, I don't know what you're suggesting about Obadiah but—"

"I'm not suggesting anything." She paused. "Well, perhaps I am. But really, I'm asking you to look into it yourself. Ask Miss Potts. You know she wouldn't lie to you." A familiar face settled behind Stark, nodding to her politely. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return to Mr Stane with his drink… You have someone else waiting to speak to you, in any case. Agent Coulson."

"Miss Wright," Coulson said, just as Stark wondered, "Agent?"

She wove through the dancing guests expertly, pausing only for a moment to chat with Pepper Potts, who was conversing with several others. One, Jessamine recognised, was the CEO of one of the companies that supplied Stark Industries with manufacturing materials. "Miss Potts," Jessamine said, sliding smoothly into a lull in the conversation. "Mr Stark is over at the bar."

"Tony is here?" Potts whirled around. "With Agent Coulson?"

"I believe Agent Coulson wishes to make an appointment with Mr Stark."

At that moment, Stark seemed to catch Potts's eye. His gaze wandered over to Jessamine for a brief moment before it was drawn back to Potts. Coulson was still speaking to him, but it was obvious that Stark's attention had been completely stolen by Potts, who indeed, looked lovely in the glimmering sheen of her blue dress. "I should speak to them," Potts said, apologising quickly to her companions. "Thank you for informing me, Jess."

"Of course, Miss Potts."

Jessamine drifted away, feeling pleased with having successfully diverted Coulson's attempt to speak to Stark. She smiled at Coulson as she left, and he eyed her with a look of reproach. It was, admittedly, quite petty of her, but she couldn't help herself. Poking at S.H.I.E.L.D was proving to be a highly entertaining pastime.

When she at last made it back to Stane, he was still speaking to the press. She slipped his drink into his hand, and stepped back, lingering close enough that she could still hear his murmuring speech, and far enough away that the cameras did not focus on her. He cycled through the questions and journalists, occasionally speaking to other guests. From every pore, he oozed superficial charm, one that wrapped around a person until they were stuffed so full of it they couldn't see which way was up and which way was down.

One journalist in particular seemed to be hanging onto every honeyed word from his lips. She was dazzled by him, though Jessamine could not imagine why. No, Jessamine corrected herself. She knew precisely why and it was everything to do with the way the journalist touched Stane's arm every time he made a joke.

How nauseating. The display continued, subtly encouraged by Stane, and Jessamine was almost thankful when she saw Stark reappearing from the building just before the journalist had fully settled herself inside Stane's arse. Her relief did not last for long, for it became clear that Stark was _furious._ The intensity of his anger and the air of potent danger and authority that wrapped around him was such that she had not thought him capable of it. And yet, as his dark gaze settled on Stane's smiling visage, the edge held within them seemed to sharpen into blades finer than goblin-made steel. The source of Stark's ire was clear, and he zeroed in on it with a ruthless single-mindedness.

Jessamine clicked her tongue in irritation. There was little time left for her to decide whether she ought to intervene, as Stark stalked closer and closer, his strides elongated in his fury. The uncommon force of his rage was made clearer with each step, and at the last minute, she chose, snagging his arm as he attempted to walk by her. "Mr Stark," she said through a toothy smile, iron grasp clenching around his arm. He turned his dark gaze upon her, the fury in them scalding.

"Let me go."

"Mr Stane is currently preoccupied. I'm afraid you'll have to wait for a moment."

"The hell I do," Stark snarled. He thrust a handful of pictures into her face. "What the fuck is going on? Have you seen these pictures? Does he know about this? Hmm?"

Jessamine's gaze flickered down. A town devastated by battle. She let go of Stark's arm, taking the pictures and flicking through them one by one. Stark weapons carried by a foreign militant group. Presumably those that had destroyed the town. The pictures painted a clear, terrible picture—Stark technology being used by a terrorist group against civilians.

"Tell me, _Wright_ , what the fuck is this?" Stark said. "You're his assistant. Did he tell you anything?"

Jessamine pressed her lips into a thin line. In the brief pause before she replied, she made a hasty decision. Whether it would prove reckless would be decided later. "No," she said quietly. Her arm snaked out, fingers digging into his flesh before he could walk away again. "Stay next to me, look peachy and listen." Jessamine folded her arm through the loop of his elbow, tugging him away from the journalists. "Did you know that it was Mr Stane who filed the injunction against you?" Judging by the violent twitch that shuddered through him, he did not. "Yes, you played quite nicely into his hands too. He told you to lay low, didn't he? And the press leapt on that, doing exactly what he wanted, which was to paint you as unstable, _weakened_ by your ordeal. With your… refusal to resume responsibility within Stark Industries, you practically gave him your company on a silver platter. You made it very easy for him to lock you out."

"He wouldn't do that to me." Stark's voice was colder than ice. "The man practically raised me."

"He would," Jessamine said. "He'll say it's to protect you, of course, not because he's been coveting Stark Industries since your father died. But make no mistake, Mr Stane is a cold, ruthless man. He plays father figure, but he cares little for you." She tightened her grip on him again, stilling his effort to wrench away his arm. Magic infused her strength. "Betrayal stings, as always. I cannot make you believe me, but what I can tell you is what I have learnt about Mr Stane in the past few months I've worked with him."

"And you know him better than I do? I've known him since I was _born._ "

"Which makes you blind to his faults. The employer I've grown to know is no doting father. He hardly acknowledges his own blood. He is a shrewd, ruthless businessman, and he hides it all behind a mask of charm and warmth. Allow me to paint you a picture. Obadiah Stane has raised Stark Industries from ground-up with your father. When your father dies, he is instead, forced to cater to the whims of the eccentric, irresponsible heir to the Stark fortune. He is discontented, but you prove to be useful, having inherited your father's creativity and innovative sense. So Stane keeps you close. But eventually, it's proving costly to continue the charade. He grows greedier. Now, you are merely an obstacle to Stark Industries— _his_ company. Fortunately for him, you happen to be kidnapped in Afghanistan. Very convenient. He thought you gone, and was content to do damage control while making his move to overtake Stark Industries.

"Except you couldn't stay kidnapped. You escaped your captors. You returned, and you had the _gall_ to try and shut down the weapons manufacturing division of Stark Industries, which is, let us be frank, your most profitable venture. Now the Stark fortune is threatened, and what's the point of taking over a company on the verge of bankruptcy? So he improvises. He locks you out. But there's something else that doesn't fit. Awfully convenient, isn't it, that you were kidnapped in Afghanistan? And now, look, Stark weapons being sold to terrorist groups in the Middle East. Do you understand what I am saying, Mr Stark? _Someone_ in Stark Industries is double-dealing. _Someone_ has connections with terrorist groups in the Middle East. How easy would it be for _someone_ to trade in a favour with one of those groups?"

"You don't have any proof. This is just a story for all I know. Speculation." There was something hollow in his voice, a horror that was creeping over him, despite his continued denial.

"Yet you know it is more than possible," Jessamine said, coming to a stop in a rather secluded area of the venue. "You already suspect that Stane knows about those weapons. That's why you came looking for him. Somewhere, deep down, you know the kind of man he is."

"Shut the fuck up." He tore his arm away, and this time, she let him. "This is—you're just trying to put these stories in my head. Fucking damn it, whatever kind of man Obadiah is, he wouldn't commit _treason._ And he wouldn't _sell_ me to terrorists."

"I am not your enemy, Mr Stark," she said. "Believe me or not, I would advise you not to confront Mr Stane right now. If he learns that you suspect him, he will take steps against you."

"If this is all true," Stark said, staring intently at her. "Why the fuck are you only telling me now? Why aren't you telling _anyone_?"

"I have no proof. Only what I have observed and my own judgement. I do not have your resources, Mr Stark, nor the comfort of security should I choose to speak out." She watched him, the suspicion that warred with betrayal burning in his eyes, the stirrings of a soul-cutting grief that came when the one person you trusted to have your best in mind proved to be a traitor. "Speak with Miss Potts. Ask her about Stane's behaviour in the weeks following your absence."

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, covering his face with his hand. He seemed aged by a full decade.

"I must go," Jessamine said, looking at him sympathetically. "This goes without saying, but Stane ought not to hear about my… speculations."

He kept silent.

"It is much to take in. I know." Jessamine injected as much sympathy as she could into her voice. Some of it, even, was sincere. "Whether you choose to believe me or not, move carefully against Stane. He is dangerous." She paused. "I am always available for tea, should you require my assistance."

Stark laughed bitterly. "This is what it takes to get you to go on a date with me? Get kidnapped and get my world turned inside-out?"

"Oh please, Mr Stark. It's not a date," she said with a humourless quirk of her lips. "Do smile as you are leaving, Mr Stark. Remember, nothing has changed, as far as the world knows."

She left him beneath inky black trees and opaque shadows. As she walked away, she heard a dull thud and a grunt of pain. She refused to look back, letting the tension drain from her shoulders, though it clung as though hooked into her skin, refusing to leave as easily as she'd hoped. A vague, old anger stirred like a drowsy viper, one which Jessamine put to sleep with a weary sigh.

—

 _The sun bore down on her, the intensity of its heat unlike anything Jessamine had ever experienced in Britain. The very air seemed to boil as it rose from the ground, distorting the sandy horizon in oily waves. Her skin was burnt an ugly red._

 _She was walking down the streets of magical Cairo, searching for her friend. It was odd, meeting in Egypt of all places. Daphne Greengrass disliked heat and sweating. Still, meeting here was a coincidence that Jessamine was glad for. She had not seen Daphne in a year since they'd parted ways, as amicably as anyone as close as they had been could have. And despite herself, she had missed Daphne terribly._

 _At last, Jessamine found her under a cool shade, a dainty finger toying with the rim of an iced drink. A pair of large sunglasses sat on her fine nose, and bow lips curved into a pretty, delighted smile upon catching her eye. "Jessamine," Daphne said, half-standing. She leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek._

 _"_ _Daphne, my friend," Jessamine said, tender. "It's been too long."_

 _"_ _I know," Daphne replied. She sat back down, the picture of unruffled elegance. "Do you want a drink?"_

 _"_ _Whatever you're having."_

 _Daphne signalled to the waiter before settling back. Behind her dark shades, Jessamine felt her friend's scrutiny and keen eye sweeping over her. "How've you been?"_

 _"_ _Well," Jessamine said. "Pansy takes care of me."_

 _"_ _I can't imagine Pansy taking care of a cactus, let alone a person." A light, teasing note softened most of the sting from her words. "But she seems to be doing a good job with you."_

 _"_ _So it seems," Jessamine agreed. "And you? How have you been?"_

 _Daphne's smile wavered. "I could be better," she admitted._

 _"_ _What do you mean?" Jessamine leaned forward in her concern, but it was difficult to read Daphne's expression when half her face was hidden by her shades._

 _"_ _Some trouble with my father," Daphne said. "It's nothing."_

 _"_ _Daphne," Jessamine said, sombre. "It's clearly bothering you. Tell me; perhaps I can help."_

 _"_ _I—" Daphne broke off, hesitating. "How much do you remember about my family business?"_

 _"_ _You deal in potions," Jessamine said instantly. "Brewing and research."_

 _"_ _Yes." Daphne's speech turned stilted and awkward. Tension knotted in her shoulders. "And—well—Dad is developing a new potion. It's… He's gotten into some legal trouble because of it."_

 _"_ _What sort of potion is it?"_

 _"_ _Well, it's the ingredients, you see. They're very rare and very expensive—some are even illegal… He was discovered buying ground Erumpent horn about a month ago, and they fined him then. But just a week ago, they caught him buying even more dangerous ingredients—they'd been keeping watch on him, I think. He's been in Auror custody ever since."_

 _Jessamine frowned in thought. "I can get him released. Money is not an issue."_

 _"_ _You'd do that? I know you've never liked him ever since… well, you know."_

 _"_ _Of course," Jessamine said. The warmth in her smile was tempered only by the thought of Marius Greengrass's previous affiliations. Though never formally charged, it was well-known in certain circles that Marius Greengrass had financed Voldemort throughout the war. "You're my friend."_

 _"_ _I—" Daphne licked her lips. Her eyes were hidden, and Jessamine wondered what tale they might tell. "I hate to ask even more of you, but I know you've got… connections. If you could make sure my father's record is cleared… It's just—his reputation is already on the line, and it doesn't look good if he's got smuggling and possession of restricted goods on top of it. I'm afraid—I'm afraid we might go bankrupt. Dad doesn't talk much about business, but it's not doing well."_

 _"_ _It is easily done," Jessamine assured. "Don't worry. I'll have it sorted in a few days."_

 _"_ _Thank you, Essa," she said. Her bottom lip trembled, and the skin over her knuckles drew white._

 _"_ _Daphne," Jessamine said gently. "It's fine."_

 _"_ _I owe you one," Daphne said with a firm nod. A glint of something shiny and bright slid along the curve of her cheek, and her hand wiped it away in a swift brush. "Thank you, Essa. Really."_

Jessamine woke violently. An unnatural cold clung to her in the air, a jarring contrast from the sweltering heat she had felt in her dream-memory mere seconds ago. _Essa_. She had not heard that affectation in years, nor felt the old ache that came with it.

She shuddered. It had been a while, too, since she'd thought of Daphne. Daphne with her pretty bow-shaped lips, from which lies and manipulation had spilled forth like perfumed flowers and honey. _Essa_ , she had called her so sweetly. The nickname echoed endlessly in Jessamine's mind, mocking and dancing in cruel delight at the sudden, sharp return of her pain.

In reality, it had not played out quite like that. Daphne had had to wheedle and plead and tease more for Jessamine to concede to her wishes. But Jessamine took no pride in that, for the truth of it was that she, once upon a time, would have done anything for Daphne. Daphne's pleading was only a game they liked to play, an old flirtation that served as a poor veil for that fact. Daphne had only needed to make her request, and in her heart of hearts, Jessamine had already capitulated as she had in her dream, holding out only for a sham show of pride.

Jessamine threw back her covers, and stood. Restlessness and rusty needles of hurt prickled beneath her skin. It was, she knew, no coincidence that such a memory had been dragged to the surface. She could almost feel the echoes of Death's icy fingers pressed into her brain, stirring it to agitation, drawing forth lost pain and hidden memories.

It was a warning, damn that _creature_. A taste of punishment, should she step too far out of line.

 _Essa._ It sounded like Death's voice now, warped and smooth, hideous and beautiful.

"Shut up," Jessamine said aloud.

 _Essa-a-a_ , sang Death.

—

There was a small nook on the third floor of Jessamine's house that she liked. Quiet, with a window that gave a complete view of the backyard, where the pool was. Her wards shimmered out from there, and the feeling of them pressed close against her skin, the very sight of them strong and thrumming with power, offered a sense of security that she found was hard-won these days.

Pain shunted through the centre of her brain. She winced, and popped two small Muggle pills into her mouth. She took a long draught of water, the pain still working its way around her head in sharp, twinging aches. Upon a small coffee table before her, there sat a deck of cards and a saucer filled with twisting tea leaves. She had not consulted either yet this evening; anxiety stayed her hand.

Jessamine had just conjured herself another glass of water when Pansy joined her. Her friend sat opposite her wordlessly.

"Good morning," Jessamine said, waving her fingers lazily. Her arm felt like a dead, leaden weight. "Water?" Pansy nodded, and Jessamine conjured a glass for her. "Dennis?"

"He went out," Pansy said. "He said he wanted to buy a chew toy for Puppis before the beast actually manages to ruin all those black strings for his computer. He's been trying to train Puppis to stop chewing for months."

Jessamine did, in fact, know that. But she was intrigued by the new—dare she say— _fond_ light in Pansy's eyes as she spoke of Dennis. But for now, she left it alone. The moment she pointed it out, Pansy would undoubtedly shut down once more, and poor Dennis would be distraught. "I doubt he's making much progress."

"He is terrible at training Puppis," Pansy agreed. "He spoils the damn thing too much. Honestly, it's only an animated stuffed toy."

"Technically, Puppis has a soul. But I was speaking of Puppis's progress," Jessamine said with a vague smile. "He doesn't have teeth to gnaw away at anything, the poor thing."

"That's true," Pansy said with a small chuckle. "He tries though."

Jessamine hummed, and took a large swallow of water. It soothed the parched dryness of her throat, its coolness lapping at the edges of her migraine. "You're speaking to me now," she said.

"I've been speaking to you."

"Not like this," Jessamine said. She had missed this; the past months had proven Pansy's supreme ability to hold a grudge. Tension had drawn taut between them, and though they had still spoken to each other and even chatted idly a few times, Pansy's anger still lingered, like a wound that could not quite heal.

"Yes, well," Pansy said, looking rather discomforted. "And I only gave in because you look terrible." She paused, looking pained. "And I admit, I may have overreacted. But it _was_ a very reckless thing you did, allowing yourself to be taken directly into S.H.I.E.L.D headquarters. I hope you plan to minimise such undertakings in the future."

"I was fine, Pansy."

"I know. And I understood that—accepted it, even, a few weeks after the debacle. But…" Pansy sighed, struggling for words. "I don't know, Jessamine. You've been so different lately. When you dove into all those dangerous situations years ago, you knew the risks. You were _afraid_ , or at least… anxious. You told me your plans, you let me help you… You _knew_ that failure could have serious consequences. Now, it's as if you simply don't acknowledge that. As if… as if this is all but a game to you." She shook her head. "I know you are more than capable, Jessamine. But I feel… I think you're treating your own life like it's another Galleon to gamble away. That terrifies me."

Jessamine did not know what to say. She knew that she had changed; had known it quite well, and even known that a large part of that change could be attributed to the cold pit of power within herself. That unnatural shadow that stalked through her veins had been shaping her and moulding her. The past five years, in particular, had seen her shed the skin of the Girl-Who-Lived. She had allowed that warm Gryffindor exterior to fade, and in its place, the Mistress of Death had blossomed. But it was only know that she realised, with a distant, disturbed jolt, how very much she had distanced herself from the days of laughing with Ron and Hermione, the world where every word was sincere and every smile was heartfelt.

"I don't think you even realised it," Pansy observed quietly.

"I… hadn't," Jessamine admitted.

"Will you try, at least? To be more careful?" A false smile, brittle and thin, twitched at Pansy's lips. "I do care about you, Jessamine. Even if I can be an arse about it."

"An arse," Jessamine snorted. She pursed her lips, looking at her old friend. It was rare that Pansy chose to so baldly express worry and affection. Pansy's way was usually of barbed words and compliments twisted within insults. "For you. I will try. I think you might be one of the only friends I have, and I can't very well toss you aside now, can I?"

Pansy laughed. It was a weary sound, but warm and relieved as well. "That's good enough, I suppose," she said. "It's been quiet these past few months anyway."

"I don't expect it to be so for much longer," Jessamine said, falling back into a more calculating mindset with ease. It was almost a comfort; she did not want to dwell too long on what the changes in herself meant, and how they might continue to evolve in the future. "S.H.I.E.L.D will not fall in line so easily. I do not know what they are planning, but they are still watching us. And… I think events might come to a peak soon enough. Stark will make his move soon enough."

Pansy's lip curled. "Stark? We've been waiting for him?"

Jessamine dipped her chin. "He is the second player to enter the board."

"Gods," Pansy muttered. "Him? Really?"

"Stark has potential. He simply needs to be tempered, and his trials will undoubtedly mould him."

"And after Stark? He's only the second player, as you say, so who is the third player?"

Jessamine hummed. "I haven't the faintest."

"Haven't the—Jessamine!"

"I'm not privy to everything that may or may not occur, my dear," she said with a shrug. "Do try not to shriek. The way will be revealed as we go along. Fretting will do you no good." She snorted at the look on Pansy's face. "Come. Tea or the cards?"

"I have half a mind to storm out on you right this moment," Pansy told her irritably. "Tea."

Jessamine flicked her hand. A tea set of dark green clay appeared on the table, and the dried leaves floated themselves obediently into the small teapot. "It's Chinese Pu'er tea. I find their readings tend to be more precise, if somewhat difficult to understand," Jessamine said as she waited for the tea to soak. "Usually, you wouldn't drink the first rinse of tea, but in Divination, the first rinse provides the best results. Here. A sip, then close your eyes and relax."

Pansy sniffed at the tea, before taking a hesitant sip. "Not bad," she admitted.

"The methods of Eastern tea reading differs from conventional European methods," Jessamine said, easing back. Her voice lowered an octave, turned slow and steady. "When European wizards and witches first adopted tasseography from the Chinese, they stripped away much of what they determined to be superfluous cultural rituals. For example, the chanting whilst the reading occurs, the burning of incense and the soaking of bronze coins in the tea. Of the three, the former two were for relaxation. There is nothing inherently magical about them, but for the reading to be done accurately, one must have an open, relaxed mind, free of disturbances and worries." Jessamine watched as bit by bit, Pansy's brow smoothed over, her shoulders relaxing beneath the waves of calm that Jessamine worked to exude. "The bronze coins, on the other hand, were inscribed with the Chinese characters for wealth, peace, clarity and fortune. Around the rim of your teacup, those characters are etched into the clay. Can you feel it?"

"Yes," Pansy murmured, her fingers tracing around the rim.

" _Fu_ , for wealth of mind; _ping_ , for peace of emotions; _qing_ , for cleansing of thought; and lastly, _yun_ , for fortune of the soul. Feel the way the characters are written, hold them in your mind. Think of the meanings they carry. Drink when you think it right to do so."

Jessamine waited as the minutes ticked by. Only after Pansy took a hesitant sip did she speak again. "Remember the taste of the tea. Remember its texture. Have another sip if you like." She waited again. "Now, come. Give me your hand."

"Hmm?" Pansy's voice was sleepy and calm.

"Give me your hand," Jessamine coaxed, reaching out across the table. Glaze-eyed, Pansy laid her left hand into her waiting hands. Jessamine massaged it, her fingers digging into the lines of Pansy's palm, pressing and stroking along the arch of her wrist to the webbing between her thumb and forefinger. "Now tell me, what are you thinking of? The first thing that pops into your mind please."

A frown marred Pansy's peaceful expression. "I… Hogwarts. The common rooms. Gryffindor, I think. Red… gold. The hearth. It's warm. Draco is here." Her nose wrinkled, and Jessamine stifled a smile. "A few others. I don't remember their names; they were in the years above and below us." Her frown deepened. "Creevey."

"Hmm. I see." She reached over and tugged the teacup from Pansy's hands. It came easily, Pansy's fingers sliding off it like water. Jessamine swirled the teacup, and murmured a quiet spell. Incense flooded it to the brim, smoke spilling out in gentle clouds and dissipating with silky smoothness.

Pansy's eyes flickered open. "That was…" She rocked backwards, blinking rapidly. "Very strange."

"It can be disconcerting," Jessamine agreed. She poured herself some tea. It was still warm.

"Well?" Pansy looked expectantly at her. "What does my cup say?"

"Wait for the smoke to fade," Jessamine said. "More tea, while we wait?"

Pansy acquiesced, and they lapsed into silence while waiting for the pale smoke, which seemed to spring never-ending from the cup, to vanish. After five minutes ticked by, Pansy broke the silence, her voice so hesitant Jessamine felt alarmed. "Would you tell me why you've been up here since dawn?"

Ah. Jessamine's smile was tight and more of a grimace. "Bad dreams, Pans. That's all."

"Surely it isn't something so simple."

Jessamine sighed. The wound, an old scar that had been stitched together and had crusted over long ago, seemed to have split open again. It bled and ached deep within, and humiliation burned like a fever through her. Yet at the same time… Jessamine thought she had not felt such emotion so sharply and acutely in a long time. She had forgotten, almost, how terrible it was, how easily it sewed one's lips shut, not out of practicality or logic, but simply out of old hurt.

"I've not seen you like this in a long time," Pansy noted. "Not since…"

"Daphne."

Pansy winced. "Yes."

"I dreamt about her," Jessamine admitted. "I haven't thought about her in… quite a while." She shook her head. "I'll be fine. It caught me off-guard, that's all."

"I—" Pansy floundered, and Jessamine smiled faintly at her friend's difficulty. She had never been one for comfort or emotions, and approached situations that required either with the wariness of a bullfighter in the ring. "If you say so," she finished lamely.

"Don't fret, dear. She is in the past." Jessamine cleared her throat, deliberately avoiding the concerned gaze that lingered upon her. "Look. The smoke has cleared." She picked up the cup, peering into it with perhaps a touch more intensity than was necessary. "A flower… a diagonal swirl here… destiny? No… Hmm…" She looked up, opening her senses as she stared at Pansy's midriff. "A touch, yes. I wonder… Huh."

"You sound surprised." Pansy was wary.

"It's nothing bad," Jessamine assured. "You thought of the Gryffindor common rooms, yes? You were drawn particularly to the hearth."

"And the people."

Jessamine hummed. "Did you like it? The common room?"

"It was very cosy," Pansy admitted. "But I think I preferred Slytherin's still."

"Not home, then. A foreign place, comfortable but still alien to you. It is part of Hogwarts, but you have never seen it before. And the fire…" Jessamine tapped her chin thoughtfully. "One possible interpretation is that you will settle down in the coming years and have a family."

Pansy blanched.

"It is a very minimal possibility," Jessamine said, reassuring. "More than likely it has to do with the touch of destiny in your cup. Perhaps from coming to America with me; after all, you will likely only grow more entwined in the proceedings if you stay with me. I suspect Dennis's results might be the same." She frowned. "I would have preferred it if neither of you had the slightest hint of it clinging to you. Destiny makes for troubled times."

Her friend rolled her eyes. "Now look who is fretting," Pansy chided. "I made my choice, and I think Creevey would say the same, loathe as I am to say so."

"Hmm," was all Jessamine allowed. "I wonder if you have an affinity for fire."

"I don't believe so."

"Trials by fire?" she wondered. "Or does it speak of passion, willpower? Unlikely. The solid pattern here suggests a defined concept, not something as abstract as emotions."

"I thought you said the readings would be more precise."

"It is," Jessamine said with a scowl. "But Divination is rarely precise, especially for those untouched by fate. You have but the slightest touch of it, and that already allows for a clearer reading, but it is still difficult."

"Or perhaps you're simply not very good," Pansy suggested, a small smirk betraying her tease.

Jessamine sniffed, and looked back down at the teacup. "Ah, yes. I see. Forgive me, I was mistaken. It is clear now that you will have seven children within the next three years. Congratulations."

" _Seven_?" Pansy screeched.

"Two sets of twins and another set of triplets. They all have your nose."

"You know I hate my nose!"

"Yes, rather unfortunate, isn't it?" A hex was flung at her, which she deflected neatly. "Congratulations once more," she said, a laugh bubbling to her lips as Pansy shot another jinx at her. Her own reading could wait; she would enjoy this moment first.


	19. 19: On the Eve

**[A/N]: So I'm anticipating at most two more chapters before I wrap up the Iron Man plotline at last. I know a lot of people have said it's been a bit slow, but considering the Iron Man plot spans over about 10 months from the beginning to end of the movie, I consider 19-21 chapters spent on it to be fairly reasonable. Anyway, it's all coming to a head soon, so thanks to my readers for sticking with it (and my dodgy publishing schedule) so far. I hope it won't disappoint. Don't forget to review!**

 **Word Count: 7,841 words**

* * *

The Turnstile Diner was quiet when Jessamine entered. It was two in the afternoon on a weekend; the rush hour had passed. The few left in the diner were idly chatting, and conversation was a low, contented murmur in the background.

Cheryl beamed when she saw Jessamine. "Afternoon, Highness," she said happily.

"Cheryl," Jessamine replied drily. She had given up on dissuading the girl from the horrid nickname weeks ago. "Kay. How are you two?"

"Not bad," Kay said with a small smile. He was a welcome, softer presence to Cheryl's bubbly personality. "Business was good today, so we're both pretty tired. Olson should be coming in to take over for me soon though."

"But not me," Cheryl said with a grumble. "After all I do for that kid."

Kay snorted. "You mean give him headaches?"

"Hey!"

"Ouch," Kay said, rubbing at his ear. "That's what I'm talking about—the shrillness, Cheryl. Seriously. Tone it down."

"Whatever," Cheryl said, deliberately flipping her ponytail into his face. "Anyway, Highness, your usual?"

Jessamine nodded, amused at the scowl Kay wore. She took her seat by the window, settling in comfortably. She did not have a long wait, and within ten minutes, Gary was smiling as he carried her order out to her. To the casual eye, he looked as he usually did—friendly, warm and laid-back. But there was tension in the air between them, growing more and more taut with every step Gary took toward her. While they had managed to come to an agreement about Gary's _knowledge_ , he nevertheless still remembered quite well that Jessamine had kidnapped him and caused him a not so insignificant amount of pain.

"Good afternoon," Jessamine said pleasantly. His smile tightened at the edges.

"Afternoon, Jess," he said. She gave Gary credit, at least, that he was good at acting as though nothing was wrong. "Chicken burger with extra jalapeños and a cup of black tea, no sugar, no milk."

"Thanks, Gary," she said, smiling contentedly as the aroma wafted under her nostrils. "It smells lovely."

Gary nodded, and slid into the seat opposite her. They talked idly about the weather, making casual chit-chat as Jessamine bit into her lunch. "Have your tea, Jess, please," Gary said after a few minutes of chatting. She noticed the way his hand twitched, and the nervous energy that seemed to be powering his jittering leg, and stilled.

Lifting the cup to her lips, she tilted, and felt the liquid wash over her tongue. It was sweet. Very sweet. The sweetness of it almost stung, gathering at the back of her throat like bile. She swallowed. "It's sweet."

"Does it have sugar in it?" Gary said, a look of feigned dismay flitting across his expression. "I'm so sorry, Jess. I must have mixed it up with another order that asked for tea with two sugars."

Jessamine shook her head. "No matter."

"I'll make you a new cup," he said, leaning over the table to take the tea away from her.

"Ten o'clock. Pansy will get you," she murmured into his ear when he was close enough. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. When he moved away, he continued to apologise for the mix-up. Jessamine smiled, but it was absent; her mind was already on the situation at hand. Black tea with two sugars meant that there was a problem. Specifically, it meant that Gary was being watched by unknowns. It could be nothing, but a sinking feeling in her stomach told her that it was unlikely.

She toyed with a potential list of suspects in her mind as she chewed her burger, which was suddenly quite tasteless. She ruled out S.H.I.E.L.D almost immediately. Gary would not have noticed them observing him; had not noticed, in fact, that they'd been keeping an eye on him for at least a year now. It was more likely that it was an organisation or individual that was less competent, not being able to hide their interest well enough.

Gary came out from the kitchen, holding a second cup of tea in his hands. He set it down on her table. "Here you go, Jess. Sorry about to mix-up."

"It's alright," she told him. She wanted to ask him more about his watcher, but forced herself to wait. There would be time to interrogate him tonight. "I'll be fine now. It was good talking with you, my friend."

Gary did not protest her dismissal. "Finished?" he said instead, gesturing at her plate. She'd only gotten through half of it, but her appetite, she found, was gone. She nodded, and he took it away, returning to the kitchen. Jessamine drank her tea slowly, using the time to throw out her senses and explore the vicinity. She felt a familiar flicker at the edge of her mind—a regular presence that she recognised instantly. It was one of the S.H.I.E.L.D agents assigned to follow her. There was another in vicinity who was watching Gary. Moving westward, she found a few pockets of magic, but they were mere touches and nothing significant. Like an old, decaying signature from a charm cast long ago. Common enough in such a large city. She moved eastwards. Nothing.

Her phone rang, breaking her concentration. The screen lit up with an incoming call from _T. Stark._ She blinked down at it before sighing.

"Stark," she said, answering the phone. "I don't recall adding your number to my phone nor giving you mine."

"Really? That's weird," Stark said. "I'm taking you up on that date."

"Not a date," Jessamine said. "When?"

"Now?"

She huffed. "Now," she repeated. "I might have had plans, you know."

"Do you?"

"No."

"Then we're good," Stark said. "My place. I'll text you the address."

Her phone dinged, and she raised an eyebrow at the address. "You don't do things by half, do you, Stark?"

"I'm a billionaire with expensive tastes."

"Clearly," Jessamine muttered.

—

The house—if it could even be called such a mundane, humble term—was obscene. If Jessamine had thought the place Pansy had rented for her was luxurious, Stark's house made her wonder if Pansy's tastes were actually quite modest. When she knocked, the door swung open automatically, and a robotic AI voice greeted her.

"Welcome, Miss Wright," the voice said pleasantly. "I am Jarvis. Mr Stark is currently in the basement. I have informed him of your arrival, and he will be up shortly. In the meantime, please make yourself comfortable. Simply head down the corridor and to the left." Jessamine shuddered. It was strange, to hear a smooth, almost human voice speak with intelligence, yet not feel even a flicker of a soul to accompany it.

The house was quiet as she walked in, the click of her heels echoing throughout. Fine, expensive furniture, sleek and modern decorated the place with surprisingly understated taste. From the looks of the house, she'd half-expected to see a golden statue of Stark in the front entrance. She found the living room easily enough, following the AI's directions. The view took her breath away. A massive, circular room with an entire wall of windows that showed the sweeping ocean, reaching beyond the horizon. Blue skies spanned overhead, with nary a wisp of cloud in sight. The Californian sun poured in uninhibited, its warmth fresh on her skin.

"You like the view?"

"It's impressive," she agreed softly. "You don't see sun like this in England."

Stark snorted. "Yeah, the sun has a Taylor Swift-Kanye West size feud going on with England." She hadn't the slightest what he was talking about, and settled for a soft hum of agreement. There was a clink of glass and the gentle sound of liquid sloshing. "Which part are you from?"

"Bath."

"Nice place," Stark said. He came up behind her and offered her a glass of whiskey. She took it with a murmur of 'thanks'.

"You've been to Bath?"

"Once or twice," Stark replied. He stared out at the sea, his gaze heavy and dark, a sharp contrast to the bright weather. "A bit quiet, but it was alright. Very Jane Austen."

Jessamine chuckled. "Quiet. Yes, it would be quiet for you, wouldn't it?" She took a sip of her drink, waiting for the burn to subside before she spoke again. "So, Stark, what is it that you require my presence for?"

His lips quirked up once, humourlessly. "Thought you knew everything," he said.

"It's impossible to know everything," Jessamine said. "But in this case, I imagine you want to speak about Mr Stane."

Stark grunted. "I spoke to Pepper. She couldn't tell me much, but she did say that Obie felt 'off' to her recently. And from what little she did say, it… sounded like you were right." The words seemed to be pulled reluctantly from him, yanked out root and stem, one by one.

Jessamine dipped her chin. "He's getting careless," she noted. "He isn't as fastidious with keeping up appearances as he was. It means he's getting impatient."

"Yeah." Stark blew out a sharp sigh. "Look, say you're right. About Obadiah and Afghanistan. I need proof. I can't just act on the _probability_ of him trying to kill me—which, admittedly, does seem pretty high at the moment."

"Proof," Jessamine said, studying him carefully. "You intend to go to the authorities about this?"

He shrugged. "Something like that."

"I see," Jessamine said with a snort. She shook her head before he could say more. "Don't. I personally do not care whether you intend to go to the authorities or have this dealt with… privately. I only wonder why you've come to me for proof. I told you, I don't have any and do not know how to get it."

"Well, I know how to get it," Stark said. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a small black USB. "I'm kind of hoping you can help me out though."

"What is this?"

"Um, it's a USB stick? You know, stick it in a computer and—"

Jessamine rolled her eyes, cutting him off with a dismissive wave. "Get on with it."

"It's a virus. Plug it into Obadiah's computer, and it'll do all the heavy lifting. All you have to do is get a copy of whatever files it finds."

She took the drive, smoothing her thumb over the surface. "How long will the download take?"

"Five, ten minutes?" Stark said with a shrug. "Depends on how many dirty secrets Obadiah has."

Jessamine considered her situation. Stark had come to her for a favour, for proof. That demonstrated trust, which she was pleased by. Accepting the request would garner her even more trust. The favour was easy enough to fulfil as well, especially since she had Stane's schedule memorised. Her best and earliest window of opportunity would be Monday morning, when business resumed and Stane would have to attend several meetings. He would be away from his office for hour-long stretches, which afforded her plenty of time to download the necessary files.

"Alright," she decided. "I'll help you."

Stark blinked. "Well, that was easy."

"You expected more resistance?" Jessamine asked, amused.

"Kind of. I mean, not that I'm complaining but most people tend to back off when asked to do life-threatening things."

"You didn't mention life-threatening," Jessamine said, pocketing the USB. "Regardless, it's hardly life-threatening if I don't get caught."

"Confident," Stark said. "I like that in a woman."

"You like anything in a woman, as long as she's got tits."

"I'm actually more of an ass kind of guy."

"Hmm. Like begets like, I suppose."

There was a pause. "Did you just call me an ass?"

"You're the genius, Stark. Surely you've figured it out," she said, quirking an eyebrow at him. "Or has all this talk of arse and tits gotten into your head?"

Stark smirked. "It's bringing up some _fond_ memories."

Jessamine wrinkled her nose, and swiftly changed the subject. "I will have the USB brought to you by Monday."

"That's two days away," Stark said, looking irritated.

She pursed her lips. "It's the best time. Stane is in his office for the whole weekend; he's been holed up in there since returning from Afghanistan. He had me clear his entire weekend schedule."

"Wait." Stark lurched upright, eyes wide and alert. "He went to Afghanistan?"

"Thursday morning," Jessamine affirmed. "He returned Friday afternoon. I don't know what he was doing there, but he certainly had nothing on his official agenda."

Stark scowled impressively. Under his breath, he uttered a curse. "Dammit, Obadiah." He lowered his head, quiet for a moment. "Thanks for letting me know."

"I have no love for Stane," Jessamine said easily. "His war mongering is quite… distasteful." In the periphery of her vision, Stark stiffened. She turned toward him, but he had recovered. Still he averted his eyes from hers as he muttered, "That's one way to put it."

"I'll see you Monday, Stark," she said with a curt nod. "Do get some rest. You look like shit."

He nearly smiled, but it withered even as it flowered. "Call me," he said, the words almost torn from him, ejected from his lips in a violent burst, "if you're in trouble. You get in, you get out, you understand? And if anything goes wrong—anything—tell me."

Jessamine listened to the whispers of his soul. His grief seemed sharper, almost manifesting in the air around him. Guilt, too, as cold and unforgiving as blizzard. "Don't worry, Stark," she said. "I can take care of myself."

He let her depart without another word.

—

 _It was night, and Gary was just locking up The Turnstile Diner. White paint flaked off the words emblazoned over the brick walls. The streets were quiet, only a few people milled about, chatting and strolling under the streetlights. Gary zipped up his jacket. It was a cool night, with winter just around the corner, but summer's warmth still lingered._

 _"_ _You'll be alright?" Gary said to Kay._

 _Kay grinned. "'Course, Gary. I'll see you Thursday."_

 _"_ _Have fun, kid." Gary watched as Kay rounded a corner, humming under his breath. The boy had a party to get to with his girlfriend, and had been antsy all throughout his shift. It made Gary smile—young love. He was an old man now, but he still remembered what that felt like. His mind drifted as he set a leisurely pace back home. Cynthia, his first girlfriend when he was sixteen. Those days had felt like a dream, and the early days, the good times, always brought a smile to his lips._

 _The gentle smile, however, faded. There was a prickle on the back of his neck. A static sensation that stood the hairs on his arm twinged at his intuition. He scanned his surroundings, letting his eyes relax as he did so. A flash of gold in his periphery. He cut his gaze towards the spot, but there was nothing. He shifted away, as though he was only casually perusing the area, and the gold reappeared in the corner of his eye. Blonde hair. A man, in a dark blue suit. Leaning against the wall, still as the night. It was like a motion card. In one angle, the man was there; in another, he was gone. Gary had grown to understand his ability more in the months since he'd been told the truth, and had finally been proven beyond doubt that he was not insane. He'd flexed it, practiced it, and he understood now that the man was there. Simply… hidden, most of the time. He'd caught sight of a few such people now and then, some puffing smoke in the shape of dragons._

 _He kept walking, pretending that he had not noticed anything amiss. It was probably nothing. Just another… wizard, relaxing in the night air. Probably doing something magical that he didn't want—what was the word she'd used? Muggles, yes—Muggles to see._

 _Probably nothing. He carried his disquiet with him into his flat, and when his eyes slid shut in his bed, oblivion chased away the unease crawling beneath his skin._

—

 _Gary balanced a tray of food in his hands as he walked out of the kitchen. It was for one of his regulars, Liam, a busy, tired businessman who nevertheless was always happy to chat quietly with Gary whenever he dropped in. Gary lingered by his table for a few minutes, catching up. "Don't let your work consume you, hmm?" he said before he left Liam to his meal._

 _"_ _Excuse me," a woman's voice called. Gary looked up. She was young, dressed in a pretty, if a little old-fashioned dress. Dark hair swept over her shoulders, and she was looking at Cheryl and Olson, neither of whom seemed to notice her. Gary frowned, and went to the woman's table. He'd have a word with his employees later._

 _"_ _Sorry to keep you waiting," Gary said with a smile. "What would you like today?"_

 _"_ _Oh, hello!" The woman grinned at him, wide and friendly. "Are you the owner?"_

 _"_ _Yes. Gary, ma'am," he said charmingly._

 _She laughed. "Eprina. But please, call me Rina."_

Odd name _, thought Gary. "Well, Rina, how can I help you?"_

 _"_ _Oh, um… I think I'd like a… chicken parmigiana with a side salad."_

 _"_ _And for the drink?"_

 _"_ _Just a, uh." She frowned, looking down at the menu. "Coca-cola."_

 _Gary quirked an eyebrow. "You sure?" She didn't sound sure. And the way she pronounced it was… strange; as though she'd never heard of such a beverage before, and was sounding it out phonetically._

 _"_ _Um, yeah. I'm sure," she said, looking dubious of her own choice._

 _"_ _Alright," he said. He turned to leave, but before he could do more than pivot half a turn away, she spoke again. "You know, this is a really nice place you got here."_

 _"_ _Thank you," Gary said. He tried for a smile, but perhaps it was the recent stress, the ever-present, constant edge of paranoia that had been weighing in him since the sight of that man last week, he could not quite bring himself to be sincere._

 _"_ _I heard about this place from a friend actually," Rina continued, her banter accompanied with an easy smile. "He says your food is to die for."_

 _"_ _I'm glad he liked it," Gary said. The knot in his chest loosened. "Who's your friend? Maybe I remember him."_

 _"_ _Oh, you probably don't remember him. I think he's only been here a few times. Um, about six feet, dark hair, always wears sunglasses?"_

 _"_ _Can't say I know him," Gary admitted with a rueful look. "Well, tell him thanks for the compliment, if you don't mind?"_

 _"_ _Sure thing."_

 _He put the conversation out of mind, going about his business. The woman, Rina left after gushing praise about his food, which stirred a warm feeling in his chest. Business petered out as the afternoon dragged into evening, and that was when he pulled Cheryl and Olson aside. "Listen, you two, I know the diner gets a bit busy sometimes, but try to keep alert, okay?"_

 _"_ _We do keep alert," Cheryl said, affronted._

 _"_ _Well, there was a woman here earlier who tried to get your attention but both of you completely ignored her. I had to take her order."_

 _Olson's brow furrowed. "Where was she sitting?"_

 _Gary pointed. "That table. Around one-thirty, maybe."_

 _"_ _Huh." Olson scratched his head. "I didn't see anyone. Cheryl?"_

 _"_ _I'm pretty sure no one was there," Cheryl said, looking both guilty and defensive. "I remember because—um, okay. Don't be mad, but this really cute guy came in and we were talking. He asked me what time I got off work, and I checked my watch. It was one-thirty-six, I remember exactly, and I told him in about four hours, so we agreed to go out later. Then I got back to work, and I looked around and checked that I didn't miss anyone while I was talking to Zheng. And I didn't see anyone sitting at that table."_

 _"_ _Are you sure?" Gary said, frowning._

 _"_ _I'm positive," Cheryl said adamantly. "100%. I swear."_

 _Gary shook his head. "Alright… just… keep an eye out, yes? And we'll talk about flirting with customers on the job later."_

 _Cheryl looked sheepish, and Olson simply snickered at her expense. "Yeah, okay."_

 _"_ _Get back to work."_

 _"_ _Yessir."_

 _The disquiet, seeds of it already buried in Gary's mind over the past week, peeked through the surface like saplings breaking the soil. What did it mean? He didn't think Cheryl was lying—and chatty and hyperactive she may be, Cheryl still tended to be quite observant. If she didn't see anyone, then there was no one._

 _Except there was. And only Gary saw her._

 _He bit hard down on his lip. He did not want to have to approach_ her _, but he had to now. Hopefully nothing more would happen until Saturday when he saw her again._

 _Shuddering, Gary tried to shelve his worries for now. But the looming prospect of Saturday always came back around to haunt him._

 _—_

Pansy pulled herself from Gary's mind, looking deeply troubled. She whispered quick, frantic words into Jessamine's ear, and slowly, the same expression dawned over her face.

"That hurt less," Gary noted. He had a slight headache throbbing in his left temple, but the discomfort was a strong relief when he thought it would have hurt as much as the first time they did this to him.

"Consent," a man in the corner said. Gary had not met him before, but when he was taken to the living room, the man was there. "You gave her consent to enter your mind, even if you weren't happy about it, so it doesn't hurt as much. Dennis, by the way."

"Gary."

A slightly embarrassed smile warmed Dennis's expression. "I know." He glanced at Jessamine and Pansy, both of whom were engaged in a furious war of whispers. "I was actually hoping to talk to you. I was going to tell Jessamine tonight, but you're here which makes this rather convenient." He trailed off, thinking. Then he snapped back to attention, looking apologetic. "But we'll wait for Jessamine. She'll murder me if I don't talk to her first."

"Is it to do with me?"

"It's everything to do with you," Dennis replied with a dark undertone that did not suit him.

"Then I have a right to know," Gary said, looking at the younger man intently. "Tell me."

"Not yet," Dennis said, shaking his head. He looked at Jessamine, who was still deep in conversation with Pansy.

"If it's to do with me, then it's my business—not… Jessamine's," Gary said, impatient.

"Sorry," Dennis said. He seemed sincere and embarrassed in his apology, but there was no reluctance, no room for argument. "You deserve to know the truth," was all he offered.

"And Jessamine deserves to know about my past before me?" Gary said coldly.

Dennis looked understanding, which only made the burn of anger in Gary's belly flare. "I can show both of you at the same time but—" He faltered. "I think you might prefer to find out without Jessamine around."

Gary fought down his frustration. Dennis would not give in—that much was obvious. "I want to know as soon as possible," Gary said flatly.

"It's your choice," Dennis said reluctantly. There was a tense silence between them, punctuated only by the inaudible murmurs of conversation between Jessamine and Pansy. Gary caught snatches of 'magic', 'leave' and 'compromised', and felt his unease rise again.

"You seem like a good kid," Gary said at last, if only to distract himself from whatever the two women were discussing. Dennis looked relieved. "What are you doing mixed up with her?" He jerked his head in her vague direction.

Dennis pursed his lips, clearly not liking the way Gary was talking about Jessamine. "We met in school," Dennis said anyway. "I didn't know her very well back then, mind. She was two years ahead of me and practically a legend. She was a different person back then."

 _Not always a cold-hearted bitch, eh_? thought Gary. Even as he thought it, he felt a twinge of shame—even if she _was_ a cold-hearted bitch, Gary didn't like to think of women like that. It made him feel like an ass.

"I never really talked to her until two years after I graduated. She helped me out of a tight spot, helped put my family back together." A sorrowful, wistful look stirred in his eyes. "I owe her everything." He turned to Gary then. "I know you don't like her—and to be perfectly honest, I don't blame you for not liking her. But she's a good person, underneath it all…" He trailed off.

"You said you went to school with Jessamine," Gary said, changing the subject. He did not want to continue talking about how Jessamine really had a heart of gold under all her bullshit. At best, he was sceptical of that. "Is that what I think it means?"

Dennis's lips twitched, and he relaxed. "If you're thinking that it was a school of magic, then yeah. We get invited when we're eleven. I was amazed when Colin got his letter—my brother. I was even more amazed when I got mine two years later." His eyes turned misty. "Mum and Dad were so shocked."

"You didn't know you were a… wizard?"

"Nah. I'm Muggleborn—means my Mum and Dad didn't have magic," Dennis added at Gary's look of confusion.

"Oh. I didn't realise normal people could…" Gary trailed off, wincing as the word 'normal' slipped out.

Dennis didn't seem to care however. "It's rare," he admitted. "Rarer still that me _and_ my brother both had magic. Most of our community are half-bloods—that's Jessamine—and purebloods—that's Pansy. Purebloods are sort of like nobility; generally, they come from old money and have their own estates and such, you know? Though I know a few pureblood families who aren't wealthy."

"I take it pureblood families have magic going back several generations, and half-bloods have one pureblood parent and one, ah, Muggle parent?" Gary deduced.

"Yeah," Dennis said. He looked genuinely delighted that Gary had grasped his explanation so quickly. "Pansy's family traces their lineage back to… er, 900 AD, was it, Pans?" He directed the question at her in a louder voice.

"912 AD," Pansy corrected absently, before continuing to emphasise some point to Jessamine without missing a beat.

Dennis snickered. "Yeah, she's very proud of being a pureblood—could probably recite her ancestors all the way back to 912 AD in her sleep. It's mad, really, but you'll find some pureblood families put a lot of stock in heritage." Something ugly marred his voice, and Gary thought back to what Dennis had said. He wondered if some purebloods liked to look down on others for not having magical ancestors. People like Dennis. "Jessamine's dad was pureblood and her mum was Muggleborn like me, which makes her a half-blood."

"They're dead then?" Gary said. He was oddly relieved by that; the idea of meeting the man and woman who had raised Jessamine made him shudder.

"Er," Dennis said, stuttering. He looked extremely uncomfortable. "Yeah."

Gary wanted to ask more, but Jessamine swept over then, a deceptively sweet smile on her lips. He did not think she was ignorant to their discussion, and he did not think she liked what Dennis had evidently let slip. "You're gossiping like an old woman, dear," Jessamine said, her hand coming to a rest on Dennis's shoulder. The young man winced, even though Jessamine looked completely relaxed. "Now did I hear you mention that you'd found something on our friend here?"

"Er, yeah," Dennis said, standing far too suddenly. "It's on my computer. Better if I show you in the library."

"Very well. Come," Jessamine said, sweeping ahead without further prompting. She paused at the foot of the stairs, glancing at Gary. Her wand slid from her sleeve and into her waiting palm, and she twirled it in graceful movements, all along whispering a quiet stream of words. At last, there was a gentle shimmer, a faint distortion of air. "Wards," she explained succinctly. Gary was not quite sure what she meant by that, but followed her up the stairs with only the slightest hesitation, his curiosity swirling with dread and anxiety.

The library was a messy room, and a stark contrast to the rest of the house or what little that Gary had glimpsed. Jessamine shed her appearance the instant the doors shut, and in seconds, a tall woman with black hair and vivid green eyes stood in place of the blonde that Gary was more used to seeing. He shivered. He looked around the library, away from Jessamine. There were piles of books in nearly every corner. Three large desks were swamped with papers, and Gary was startled to notice that there were _quills_ scribbling notes—except no one was using those quills. He blinked, wiped at his eyes and looked again. The quills were indeed, moving through the air by themselves, with far too much grace and swiftness to be controlled by strings or anything like that. "Those are Note Takers," Dennis said quietly into Gary's ear, a trace of amusement audible in his voice. "We set them to some books or articles and they take down summarising notes of the contents. We don't use it for all books, though, because sometimes the Note Takers will dismiss points it deems irrelevant which we might be interested in."

"Fascinating," Gary said, still staring.

"And look." Dennis pointed over at the bookshelves. Several tomes were rearranging themselves on the shelves, and a feather duster swept over each of them with clinical precision. "Those bookshelves are called Orderlies, one of the best you can get from Pixie's Burrow. They're charmed to keep all the books alphabetised, sorted into genre, era or whatever you like." He shifted his finger to another section of the library. "That's the Muggle section there. We've got quite the collection now, with all the research Jessamine and Pansy have been doing about your, er, special ability."

"Not you?"

"I handle the digital stuff," Dennis said, waving a hand at his desk. Squinting, Gary saw that there _was_ a computer buried beneath that mess. "Pansy is hopeless with technology—thinks aeroplanes fly on stolen magic, that one."

Gary blinked at the other man. "Surely not."

"I wish," Dennis said. His expression was a cross between pained exasperation and fondness as he looked at Pansy, who had settled behind her desk while still hissing an argument at Jessamine. It was only getting more heated, as far as Gary could tell; her hands slashed more violently through the air, her dark cheeks grew more flushed with agitation and increasingly, her eyes darted to him, almost accusingly.

 _He's in love_ , Gary realised with a start. There was almost a ghost of a smile, then the amusement passed. Disappointment settled in, heavy and real. Despite himself, Gary found that he liked Dennis though they'd only just met—Dennis was friendly and radiant in the way precious few were. There was a kindness and warmth in him that was evident in every line of his face, evident even when he was still and quiet. It had seemed odd that Dennis would associate with people like Jessamine and Pansy, both of whom were so cold and unfeeling. Gary had dared to wonder if Dennis was being pushed into this as much as he was, but here, Gary realised he'd been wrong—and it was a terribly bitter sort of disappointment that engulfed him.

"Enough," Jessamine said abruptly, cutting Pansy off. The latter fell silent in an instant. "We'll hear what Dennis has to say first, then discuss this further." With clear reluctance, Pansy nodded, and Jessamine fixed her green gaze on Gary. Every nerve in him seemed to twist. Her eyes drifted over to Dennis. "Very well, Dennis. What is it you've discovered?"

"Er, right. Hang on—let me get this on. It was sort of an accident actually," Dennis said, throwing himself into his chair. He pushed papers and pens off his computer, slowly uncovering it. "I'd been trying to find anything to do with Gary Lukesworth for months in S.H.I.E.L.D's database, but nothing ever turned up under that name. So I looked at S.H.I.E.L.D's high-priority information first, and worked from there. And man, they have _so much_ —"

"Dennis."

"Ah, yes. Er. Anyway, eventually I stumbled across HYDRA. It's been around for centuries, really, as a cult. But they became highly influential in World War II. HYDRA was a scientific and research-focused branch of Nazi Germany, led by a man called Johann Schmidt. They were made up of stereotypically mad, ruthless Muggle scientist, with no moral compunctions in their experimental procedures whatsoever." He shuddered delicately. "They did some truly horrible things. But HYDRA eventually outgrew Hitler's ambitions. Schmidt was searching for something that would help him create a generation of unparalleled technology—weapons more powerful than the atomic bomb. And he found it, something called the Tesseract." From the corner of his eye, Gary saw Jessamine jerk as though she'd been jolted by a shock of electricity. "The Tesseract was a near-mythical object. It supposedly contains limitless amounts of energy that could power all the homes in the world for a billion years—and that's a conservative estimate. It's in stories all over the world, passed down from centuries ago, and everyone thought it was just a story. But Schmidt found it." He moved his mouse, and expanded a picture of the Tesseract.

"Extraordinary," Jessamine murmured, leaning forwards. Her hand reached out toward the screen, where the image of a cube lit with a furious, vivid blue glow was displayed. Even through the layers of screens, distance and time between them and the Tesseract, Gary could almost feel the wash of its power spark against his skin. Pansy placed a hand on Jessamine's outstretched arm, looking concerned, and Jessamine subsided. "Continue, Dennis," she said, but she sounded dazed.

"Right," Dennis said, giving her an odd look. "Er, anyway, Schmidt found the Tesseract. HYDRA experimented on it. A man named Armin Zola had the most success with it—he actually created a _death ray._ " He looked both awed and horrified by that. Gary himself leaned more towards horrified. "And… Schmidt allowed another scientist to experiment with the Tesseract. Otto Koch."

Here Dennis stopped, looking as though he was lost for words. His friendly, shining blue eyes settled on Gary, and they were sad. "S.H.I.E.L.D kept surveillance on Otto Koch for years… This is the man they identified as Koch."

There was a dreadful moment that seemed to span eons, where Gary was simply suspended in a limbo. He felt the chasm beneath his feet, the swooping, sickening realisation that dawned even though he didn't understand it yet in his consciousness. But the look in Dennis's eye preceded the revelation, prompted it, triggered it, along with the name—Otto Koch. It called to something deep within Gary, and he knew, somehow, in the fraction of a second before Dennis pulled up a picture of Otto Koch.

Gary's face stared back at him, a digital, scratchy version, tinged blue on the computer monitor. Yet it was not him—the eyes were green, the body too tall, the nose too long, the chin too soft. Little differences, miniscule enough that a passing glance, perhaps even a brief inspection, might mistake them for each other. It was only in staring, in cataloguing every feature and noting the way one nose was crooked and the other wasn't, that it became clear that this man only looked uncannily like Gary. Unbidden, the word rose up within him—a name. "Ottochen," he said with a heavy sigh that drew from somewhere pained and grieving, a depth he had not even known existed within himself. The name rolled off his tongue, but he did not recognise it.

"That isn't Gary," Jessamine said quietly.

Dennis glanced at the man in question, who had his head bowed and eyes downturned from the screen. "No," Dennis said. "Gary's younger brother." He paused, hesitating. "He was not Gary Lukesworth back then. He was Walter Koch."

 _Walter_. A door creaked open in his mind, and the name spilled forth to the forefront of his consciousness, making itself at home there. It found its space easily, nestling next to the word 'Gary' as though it had always been there. Walter and Gary. He was both. He was Gary. He shook his head, confused. No, he was Walter. But who was Walter? Who was Otto? The door in his consciousness seemed to lead to an entirely different section of his mind—one that was not new, but merely forgotten. He sensed that there were memories buried deep within, but they were dusty and slippery; faded from disused, waiting to be restored back to vibrancy.

"… S.H.I.E.L.D took them into custody but…" Dennis trailed off just as Gary raised his head.

"But what?" he asked.

Pansy read the next lines in S.H.I.E.L.D's dossier on Otto Koch over Denni's shoulder. Her lips twisted grimly, but she relayed the information to Gary that Dennis clearly did not want to. "Koch committed suicide before they could question him. Like all HYDRA agents, Koch had a cyanide pill in his molar tooth."

Unexpected grief tore at Gary's chest. A vague, blurred memory of a child with flushed cheeks, green eyes and golden hair that glittered in the sun came to mind. He felt the loss of that child keenly. He could not even recall the child's voice.

Pansy continued, "Walter Koch had a cyanide pill in his tooth as well, but S.H.I.E.L.D removed it before he regained consciousness—"

"Regained consciousness?" Gary interrupted. Pansy and Dennis exchanged a look.

It was Dennis who took up the explanation. "Otto and Walter Koch were found in a HYDRA lab in their Frankfurt base. Most of the other HYDRA agents were killed in the fighting, and a few more committed suicide when they realised they couldn't escape. But they found, er, you and Koch in an underground lab. You were already unconscious; they suspect that Koch was experimenting on you."

"Experimenting on me?" Gary repeated, horrified.

Dennis looked even more uncomfortable now. "There were some of his notes found in the lab. S.H.I.E.L.D pieced together what they could and they figured out that Koch was using energy from the Tesseract to alter your body—and, er, they also understood that you had consented to the experiment. Actively contributed to the research too, actually. Your handwriting was all over Koch's notes."

" _I_ contributed to it?" Gary said, incredulous. "That's impossible—I'm not a scientist!"

"According to S.H.I.E.L.D's records, you were," Jessamine said tonelessly.

"S.H.I.E.L.D's records," Gary said. He glared at Jessamine, and the sight of her face, so strange and different, tipped him over into anger, roiling, dark and eager. "No, this is impossible. I don't know what you're trying to achieve, but I'm not Walter Koch." The identity arose within him again, calling to him— _Walter, that's your name, that's my name, Walter, don't you remember—_ and he denied it vehemently. "I'm not a scientist and I wasn't experimented on! I was terrible with it in high school, even—I couldn't even tell you if caesium is flammable!"

"Is it?" Dennis wondered.

"I don't know," Gary snarled. But the voice inside him whispered: _water and caesium—dangerous—_

He shook the words away. He didn't know. He was no scientist—he had been an attorney. He'd gone to law school at Harvard, had met his ex-wife there—his ex-wife, Melanie, who lived in—in—

Gary froze. Boston? No, that wasn't right. She'd moved up north, hadn't she? She'd always liked winter, and he remembered when he'd took her on their first date, just walking around as the snow fell. They'd talked about her work—she was going into engineering—her family—two brothers and her mom—

What did they look like?

Surely he remembered. He knew they'd been at their wedding. One of her brothers, Tom had been a groomsman. They'd had hair like Melanie's—dark, rich brown.

Gary blinked. The memory slipped away, and Melanie's hair was blonde. It cycled through red, black, white, even green. And her features morphed too; did she had large eyes? What colour had they been? Her mouth, that he'd once kissed every morning before he'd left for work, was dark, lovely pink. He thought. He suddenly wasn't sure.

The harder he tried to gather the memories of Melanie and their life together, the quicker they seemed to slip away. Then he was struck by another thought—when was the last time they'd spoken?

Years. Their divorce hadn't ended well. Gary wanted nothing more than to call her now though, and he fumbled with his phone as he withdrew it from his pocket. Melanie was _real._ She was. He flipped his phone open, but the screen was black. He tapped at the keys, frantically—why wasn't it working?

"Oh, er, electronics don't work well in here," Dennis said. "Use one of our phones; it's protected against magic."

"I can't," Gary muttered, staring down at the sleek, thin, dead piece of metal in his hands. "I don't have her number memorised."

"Who are you looking for?"

"Melanie." Gary paused. The name came slowly, with difficulty. He felt almost like crying. "Palmer. Melanie Palmer. My ex-wife." He sensed more than saw the looks they gave him. The pity.

"Yeah, I'll look into it," Dennis said gently. "Don't worry about it. Why don't you take a break in one of the guest bedrooms? I'm sure Jessamine wouldn't mind."

"Pansy can show you," Jessamine said, not unkindly.

There was a huff of displeasure, but Pansy stood without further comment. "Come."

"Is there more?" Gary asked Dennis.

"It can wait," Dennis said.

"You'll tell me? All of it?" Dennis's eyes darted away, towards Jessamine. " _Don't look at her_ ," Gary said flatly. "You'll tell _me_?"

"Er." Dennis sat, rigid in his seat. "I—er—"

"He'll tell you," Jessamine said. "The information will be waiting for you, whenever you choose to view it."

Gary did not even glance at her, but disdain curdled at the tip of his tongue as he looked at Dennis. The man looked sad, but not ashamed. He'd always obey Jessamine without regrets, even if that meant others drew the rougher end of it.

It made Gary feel sick.

—

The moment the door shut behind Pansy and Gary, Jessamine spoke, her voice hushed and quick. "Is there anything on Eprina Sokolov in S.H.I.E.L.D's database?"

Dennis made a quick search, and after a couple of minutes, he shook his head. "Nothing."

She'd expected that, but the confirmation still sat wrong and off-kilter in her gut. She did not like the feeling—it felt unbalanced, teetering.

"Who is Eprina Sokolov?" Dennis asked.

"MACUSA Auror. Pansy recognised her in the memory. Sokolov met with Gary at his diner."

"Shit," Dennis echoed. "Does she know? About his… abilities?"

"I don't believe so," Jessamine said. "It wasn't just her keeping an eye on Gary—he spotted another wizard, using Auror-grade spells to hide his presence. He is being followed by MACUSA, I'm sure of it—but if they did know about Gary, that Auror wouldn't have relied so heavily on magic to hide himself." She rubbed her forehead. "But that only makes it more troubling. If MACUSA isn't interested in Gary for his ability, then the only other magical ties Gary has—"

"Is us," finished Dennis. A look of horror was slowly dawning over his expression as he realised what was implied. "You think MACUSA knows about us."

"Pansy and I covered our tracks," Jessamine said. "My contacts in MACUSA have ensured that this house is not on official records, and the Detector has been tuned to ignore any wards set up on this property." She gripped the back of Dennis's chair tightly. "My contacts have not mentioned anything suspicious either. It is very unlikely that MACUSA learned about us through magical sources."

"When you say through magical sources—"

"Does anything in S.H.I.E.L.D's database mention magic?"

Dennis swallowed. "No. There's nothing at all."

Jessamine wasn't sure if she ought to be relieved or panicked. "They would have kept any information on magic there." She hung her head, thinking hard. Pansy slid back into the library quietly while she thought, and Dennis caught her up with a few whispered words. "Alright. So I cannot ignore S.H.I.E.L.D or MACUSA. Both will be on all of our arses now. Thankfully, I'm near certain that MACUSA have yet to come close to the house yet—I would have noticed them. Most likely, they're concerned about tripping proximity wards. I don't know if they've seen you and Pansy either, but I cannot risk you two being recognised and discovered here. They are aware that both of you have ties to Jessamine Potter."

"I hope you're not putting us on house arrest," Dennis said, looking twitchy at the mere idea.

"No, but you will be walking around in at least ten glamour spells at all times, and Merlin help you if you allow yourself to be seen leaving this house, disguised or not. No risks, Dennis," Jessamine said, and he groaned. She turned to Pansy. "Have you been making appearances in London?"

"Occasionally," Pansy confirmed. "Most believe I'm currently searching Australia for you, checking in with Mother when I can."

"Good. Tonight, you will arrive at your mother's for a routine visit."

"What?" Pansy stared, aghast. "Jessamine, I'm not leaving you now!"

"I need you in London to look into what the magical governments know about S.H.I.E.L.D. Speak to Zeller."

"You want me to speak to _Zeller_?" Pansy said, furious and pale. "Jessamine, I have more of a chance of marrying Neville Longbottom than I do of getting Rose Zeller to tell me anything she doesn't want to tell me."

"If anyone knows anything about S.H.I.E.L.D, it's her."

"Why would she know anything about S.H.I.E.L.D anyway? This is ridiculous."

"Because she's the Minister for Magic and has her fingers in more pies than Albus Dumbledore even knew of," Jessamine said flatly. "And unfortunately, just as prone to keeping secrets. Work on her, Pansy; you're the only one I trust to be able to achieve any semblance of success. I will be looking into what my MACUSA contacts know." She gave Pansy a hard look, waiting for her friend's agreement. When none came, she prompted, "Very good?"

Pansy scowled fiercely. "Very good."

"Thank you." Jessamine glanced at Dennis. "Continue looking through S.H.I.E.L.D's database for suspicions of magic's existence. If Nick Fury is half as slippery as Coulson is, then I want every bloody stone flipped and looked at until you can draw it in your sleep."

She wasn't sure what she hoped Dennis would find. He could find nothing, something or everything—and all were terrible options.


	20. 20: Crescendo

**[A/N]: Have you guys watched Endgame? Watch it. Then watch it again. In fact, you probably do need to watch it twice to catch all the little details (and plotholes, which, unfortunately, exist). I'm booked for three Endgame sessions this week (yeah, I thought I was crazy too) - I just watched it for the first time yesterday and _damn._ I already can't wait to watch it again. The cinema I went to had shitty volume, which was the only downside of the experience. Sigh. **

**Anyway. No spoilers are in this chapter or anything, so don't worry. I wrote most of it pre-Endgame, so there won't even be a _hint_ of Endgame knowledge leaking into the story. **

**Watch Endgame. Seriously. Especially if you're an avid Marvel fan - don't think you can get the most out of the experience unless you've followed Marvel religiously, tbh. But don't worry if you haven't - you'll still enjoy the movie just fine, I think.**

 **Gah, I can't stop talking about Endgame. Okay, okay. That's it. Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

Jessamine entered Stane's office at nine forty-two in the morning. He was in a meeting with the board, and had another meeting scheduled at quarter past ten in his office. She would be back at her desk by then.

She went around his desk, pulling the USB Stark had given her from her pocket. Dennis had been salivating at a chance to analyse the contents, but unfortunately, Jessamine had kept him quite busy over the weekend, scouring S.H.I.E.L.D's records for mentions of magic. He had turned up with nothing, which was suspicious enough in Jessamine's opinion. She shook her head; there was time to worry about that later. For now… She plugged the USB into the computer. Only a moment later, the screen flickered to life, and a red warning box flared. _Security breach_. Jessamine glanced at the door, which remained shut. A beep mere moments later. _Access granted._

The virus started working through the files with ruthless efficiency. In seconds, it had found the information Jessamine knew Stark would want—Sector 16. Her eyes widened as she took in its contents. Was this what she thought it was? A weaponised armour? It was almost medieval, but Jessamine knew that if Stane was interested in this, it would be equipped with state-of-the-art technology. The best that Stark Industries had to offer, and that was no small thing to scoff at. Jessamine shuffled through to the next file, snorting as she read the name: _Ultra_Secret._

Inside, however, Jessamine found the desired proof. A video of a bloodied and dazed Stark, streaked in ash and grime, squinting at the camera. He was surrounded by men with hidden faces, armed to the teeth with rifles. One man was speaking, and through her rather patchy Dari, she caught snippets of 'kill', 'Tony Stark', 'Obadiah Stane' and 'price'. A vivid picture was painted, and she almost smiled, a distant satisfaction settling in her in the confirmation of her theory. Here, undeniably, was the proof that Stane had ordered a hit on Stark. She shut the video off and started transferring the files. Groping with her senses, she knew that Stane was not anywhere in proximity. She relaxed.

The download did not take long. It was as Stark promised—better, even. It took a little under three minutes for everything to be transferred. She even had time to snoop through the files on Sector 16. From the measurements, she saw that the armour was a bulky, clunky thing, made for power and little finesse. It was but a work in progress, however—a mere prototype. Based on what, she wondered. Jessamine did not think Stane had come up with this idea; he was a businessman, not an inventor. Stark, however, was. The notion solidified in her mind the more she thought of it. Yes, she was certain of it; this armour was Stark's work.

"Very impressive," Jessamine murmured. The suit needed to be powered by some sort of battery that was built into the chest plate. What the battery was exactly, however, was unspecified in the file. Perhaps even Stane had yet to figure that part out.

There was a ping on the edge of her senses. Stane was returning, earlier than anticipated. Jessamine scowled, tugging the USB from its slot. She started to clear away evidence of the computer being tampered with, but paused and stared down at the USB thoughtfully. There was something off here. She felt it weigh down on her shoulders. It felt like a shift in the air, an imbalance. A moment later, a cold breeze swept over the back of Jessamine's neck.

 _You interfere._

 _Ah_ , Jessamine thought. Death's voice was full of impressions and images. Not all her message was conveyed through words, but it was received clearly. _Why?_ She asked.

 _Some things must occur, child._ Accompanying the words was a pressure like a knife's edge, dozens of them grating over her skin.

Jessamine's jaw tensed. Death would have her way. She pocketed the USB but left minor hints of her presence. The mouse slightly askew. The computer not set to its initial screensaver. The newspaper flattened out on the tabletop, instead of folded. He would notice, then he would check the security tapes. She could feel Stane entering the lift. Quickly, she slipped out of the office, and sat herself down behind her desk. She picked up a phone and made a call, as though she had been doing that the entire time.

When Stane strode through a minute later, he hardly even glanced at her. The moment the door shut behind him, Jessamine sprung from her seat—she did not want to linger for his reaction. Quickly she went to Pepper's office and was admitted in an instant; from the look on the woman's face, she knew quite a bit of what was happening. Jessamine handed her the USB stick wordlessly.

"What's on it?" Potts asked, looking fretful and anxious. "Did he suspect anything?"

"Evidence," Jessamine said. "All that Mr Stark needs to know. And he might have. I would get this information to Stark as quickly as possible."

"Jesus. I need to call Tony." Potts flicked her phone out, then swallowed. She stared down at the small, black item as though it was poison. "Is Obadiah—is it true?"

Jessamine eyed her. Stark trusted Potts more than anyone—cherished her more than anyone too, most likely, even if neither knew that yet. It was, Jessamine wagered, the only reason why Stark had risked revealing sensitive information and asked for Jessamine's help with the task of retrieving information from Stane's computer, rather than have Potts do it instead. "Yes," Jessamine said, deciding. "Mr Stane hoped to assassinate Mr Stark in Afghanistan." She paused, watching Potts carefully for a reaction. "Mr Stane also has a project ongoing—from what I saw of the schematics, he is attempting to build some sort of armour."

"Armour," Potts said falteringly. "Like a suit?"

Jessamine tipped her head. "Is that what Mr Stark is calling it?"

A flinch. Quickly suppressed, but there. "I don't understand."

"The suit Mr Stane had on file was rough work. But ingenious. He is not a very imaginative man. Was it Afghanistan?" Jessamine threw out a guess.

Pepper did not reply.

"I wondered," Jessamine said. Then she stilled. There was a familiar presence that had just walked into Potts's waiting room. He was only sitting, but Jessamine could feel his alertness. "Get that information to Mr Stark, Miss Potts. The sooner the better; Mr Stane has obviously been attempting to rebuild Mr Stark's work. I'm not sure of his success, but if he does realise I have been in his office… That will doubtless be a rather difficult situation."

Potts bit her lip. "Thank you, Jess," she said, glancing at her watch. "I think I'll take this straight to Tony."

"Of course. Are you clearing your schedule for the day then?" Jessamine said. She stood on the spot, not moving though Potts had already begun to walk towards the door.

"Um, not exactly," Potts said, giving her an odd look. "The rest of my day is free, really."

"No meeting?" Jessamine prodded. Outside, Coulson had jerked upright. So the room was bugged. "With a certain S.H.I.E.L.D agent, perhaps?"

"You mean Agent Coulson?" Potts said. A stain of impatience coloured her voice now. "No, my meeting with him is tomorrow. Jess, I really have to get this to Tony now—"

"Clearly he got the date wrong," Jessamine said, taking out her phone. She flicked through her contacts and dialled Dennis's number. "Step aside please, Miss Potts."

"Step aside?" The woman looked utterly baffled right now, but it seemed a decade of being Stark's assistant had ingrained in her a habit of following strange instructions before demanding answers, and she stepped aside.

" _The number you have dialled is currently unavailable_ ," a robotic voice said into her ear. At the same moment, the door swung open. The nozzle of a pistol nudged in first. Coulson held his gun steadily, confidently. " _Please leave a message after the beep._ " The tinny, high-pitched beep seemed to echo in the silence that had fallen. Potts's eyes swung from Coulson to Jessamine, wide and horrified. A soft _oh my God_ fell from her lips.

"Agent Coulson," Jessamine said coolly.

"Jess," he replied, his pleasant mask turned hard and blank. "Is that your real name?"

"Is MACUSA currently breaking through my wards?"

There was a flicker of surprise in Coulson's eyes, but his aim never wavered. "MACUSA?" he said. Jessamine could almost taste the falseness of his confusion.

"I see," she said. She glanced to Potts, and that look broke her from her stupor.

"What the hell is going on?" Potts said. "Why are you pointing—pointing a gun at Jess?"

"She is highly dangerous individual, Miss Potts," Coulson said calmly. "Please, step outside. Jess, will you come in quietly?"

Jessamine sighed. "You should get those files to Mr Stark, Miss Potts."

"Miss Potts, I'm going to have to ask you not to leave," Coulson said. "I would also like to know what are on those files that Jess is talking about."

"It's, uh," Potts faltered. "Um. It's Obadiah—"

"Why ask, Agent Coulson? You heard the entire exchange, did you not?"

Potts blinked. Comprehension followed shortly after. "You _bugged_ my office?"

"This is a matter of national security, Miss Potts. We will see to Obadiah Stane, but for now, if you could drop that USB into my pocket and step outside please."

"Oh God," Potts muttered. "Okay, okay. Shit." With shaking fingers, she gave the USB over. "I'm calling Tony. Oh my God." Jessamine's phone vibrated. She peeked at the screen. It was from Dennis: _SOS._

"You were too clean," Jessamine said after Potts had left, half-panicked and close to tears. There was a mild charm on the room, deterring Potts's attention and keeping her from listening too closely to their conversation. Coulson looked at her in askance. "The database. Not a single mention of magic in it. Initially, I'd thought perhaps MACUSA had infiltrated S.H.I.E.L.D and was wiping the information from your surveillance. But the more I thought about it, the more unlikely that scenario seemed. Dennis showed me how much surveillance S.H.I.E.L.D monitors worldwide, and we magical folk have never been particularly careful nor conscious of Muggle technological advancements. You would have caught us out long ago, I think. Too many of us to keep the secret."

Coulson's face was impassive. She wondered if he hoped to continue the charade of ignorance. "Muggle?"

"Perhaps you know the phrase better as No-Maj. Americans," she said with a roll of her eyes. "I suppose S.H.I.E.L.D has an understanding with Prestige Swiftborn? Very reckless of him, isn't it? I can't imagine the ICW would be pleased to know that the President of MACUSA is collaborating with Muggles in direct contravention of the Statute of Secrecy."

There was a long, tense pause. "You need help, Wright. This—magic—it isn't real."

Jessamine snorted. "My apologies. 'You're mad' is an ICW favourite. So the agreement is with them, hmm? I expect the heads of the magical states are the only ones authorised to know of S.H.I.E.L.D's existence and awareness of the magical world." There was a tick in Coulson's cheek that jumped with every word that left her mouth. "I wonder how on earth the ICW ever agreed to working with Muggles. They're quite a close-minded lot, you see. Many of them seem to think Muggles are dirt on their boots." She paused. "But you won't tell me, will you." Though phrased like a question, her tone suggested that it was anything but. The finality in it seemed to alert Coulson, and he took an inching step forward.

"Come quietly, Jess," he said. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," Jessamine said. Something frozen stabbed at her insides. Her face felt as though it was carved from granite—her wards had fallen, far quicker than anticipated. She felt their break rolling through her as though the earth was tilting sideways. A snap in her magic that recoiled on her like a fired gun. The wards had not been made to withstand a siege, only made to divert; she should have been more careful, but had instead chosen to be experimental. Now she paid for it. There was no more time left to waste.

Coulson's finger pressed on the trigger, but Jessamine was faster. Her magic locked his body in place. He stood still as a statue, lips half-open in surprise, eyes darting from side to side as he struggled in vain against her power. A low, groaning moan slithered out of his throat.

"A simple spell, but I'm afraid it's beyond your capabilities to escape," Jessamine said. "Good luck trying."

Another groan forced out his lips. She ignored it, and closed her eyes, readying her wand by her side. She hoped that Dennis had managed to hold on. Pulling her thoughts together, she focused on _home_ and twisted her heel.

 _Crack!_

 _—_

Later, Jessamine would reflect that there were better ways to enter a battlefield. A way with some semblance of a plan, perhaps Apparating to a distant building to survey the situation before engaging. Or diplomacy, even, might have mitigated the damage. But as her Apparition warped around her, tightening and choking with her fury, Jessamine saw no better way. She had not felt such anger in a long time, maybe even since the days when Voldemort sat in the back of her head and stirred up her temper at his whim.

This time, however, her anger was her own, and it was edged with lethality instead of hurt. Jessamine felt the Apparition begin to fade. She gripped her wand tightly, her legs coiled to spring into motion the moment the blackness before her eyes wisped away to reveal daylight.

"What is— _Impedimenta!_ "

Jessamine tumbled low to avoid the spell. Calm was settling over her mind already. Battle calm. She'd not experienced it for years—she had not realised how much she'd missed it. There was a swirl of blue MACUSA Auror robes before her, and with a flick of her wand and a whisper of a thought, she set it on fire. The Auror cursed, immediately trying to put it out. Jessamine's Stunner hit him full on in the face. She rose out of her crouch and surveyed the area. The living room was caved in from spellfire. Directly above it had been the library, but the ceiling had shattered, and now their research, papers and papers of it scattered across the ground floor. To the side, Dennis's laptop lay, crumpled and shattered. There had been spells in place to protect exactly this sort of thing from happening, but clearly they had not been able to withstand whatever had occurred here.

She threw out her senses. The Auror she had felled had apparently managed to send out some sort of distress signal, because there were ten witches and wizards converging on her. She animated the furniture, the carpet, the shattered glass. They waited.

The first witch who came through was stupid enough to forgo a shield spell. The lamp skewered her through her belly, and there were shrieks and shouts. A moment later, she vanished, taken away by an emergency Portkey. The next Aurors through were layered in shield spells. Distantly, Jessamine recognised that some of them wore customised robes from Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes's defensive products' line. There was a spark of humour in that, but it was vague. It was unfortunate that the Aurors had chosen those products—once upon a time, it had been the Weasley twins themselves who had confided in she and Hermione of a flaw in its spellwork that they could not solve. Jessamine and Hermione had managed a solution—but years later, Jessamine had realised that the flaw was not entirely fixed. Patched over, but still vulnerable, like a raw scar. By that time, however, Jessamine had not spoken to the twins in three years, and was not inclined to speak to them again. Thus the vulnerability remained, and Jessamine knew that Hermione, too busy to even think on it, had not yet realised it in all these years.

She exploited it freely now. With a twist of her magic, the shield spells were flayed open and turned to grey dust. Dispassionately, she watched as her increasingly battered furniture crushed, stabbed, sliced and smashed into several Aurors, knocking them unconscious. A cutting curse sliced deep into her arm, and Jessamine gave a grunt of pain. Her calm was almost blankness now, simmering beneath a placid surface. Her furniture increased their frenzy, until even when the Aurors had all been knocked unconscious, one armchair determinedly ground its leg into an unconscious Auror's temple.

"Enough!"

The cry came from behind the door. Jessamine tilted her head. There were three more outside the room. Two of them were terrified, close to fleeing at any moment.

"Please." It was a man. Was he the leader? She felt strength and determination in him, as well as responsibility. The deaths of his comrades weighed heavily on him, festering in him as guilt and hatred. "Stop it. I want to talk."

"I want my friend. Bring him to me, and I'll stop," Jessamine said. The coldness in her voice made the man shudder.

"He's safe. He's in MACUSA headquarters."

Jessamine flicker her wand, and everything stopped. The man exhaled in relief. "That was a lie," she said. She bent, picking up a jagged piece of glass. She walked over to a prone Auror and crouched before him. She woke him, keeping her eyes on the leader the entire time. "Tell me the truth." The Auror in her grasp reached slowly for a wand. She placed the edge of her makeshift weapon right over his jugular. "Please don't."

"Don't—okay. Wait. It's going to be okay, Jenkins."

"Yeah, boss," Jenkins said shakily.

The lead Auror stepped forward hesitantly. A bead of Jenkins's blood bloomed. He stilled. "Creevey is outside," he said. "I can go get him now."

"You will stay right here," Jessamine said. "The one outside can go. The woman—the one who seems to be on the verge of pissing her pants. Really, do keep yourself together."

A flicker of surprise flashed across the Auror's face. "Sokolov, get over here," he said reluctantly.

"Y-Yes, sir." It was the Auror who had gone to Gary's café. She did not look so confident now. Her face was white with fear and horror as she looked around at the room.

"Get Creevey."

"Contact MACUSA and I'll cut dear Jenkins's throat right here, then maybe I'll cut _his_ throat if I have the time." Jessamine paused. "Terribly sorry, I never got your name."

"Dolohov."

She raised an eyebrow. "Dolohov? Curious. I didn't know they had an American branch." Sokolov stood, petrified at the doorway. "Go on, girl, what are you waiting for? Do you want your throat slit as well?" Sokolov squeaked and fled. "MACUSA seems to be scraping the bottom of the barrel with that one."

He ignored that. "You knew the British Dolohovs?"

She grinned. "I had a few dealings with Antonin. Nasty piece of work, but he paid well for what he wanted." Dolohov blinked. He could not quite mask his confusion and Jessamine picked up on it in an instant. Her smile widened. "Dear me. MACUSA has not done their homework. Do you have any idea who I am?"

"We know what you've done."

"What have I done then? I should like to know MACUSA's reasons for this invasion of my home."

His eyes were steely grey, unyielding and fierce. "Illegal entry into magical America. Illegal impersonation of a magical American citizen, Jess Wright. The kidnapping of Jess Wright. Extortion of Veronica Wright. Use of magic on a No-Maj. Illegal placement of dangerous wards on an unlicensed property. Endangering the Statute of Secrecy. Shall I continue?"

"I can categorically deny several of those charges," Jessamine said. "The biggest one is the endangerment of the Statute of Secrecy. When have I ever done that?"

"You revealed yourself to a highly militarised No-Maj government agency that specialises in subterfuge and intelligence gathering!" Dolohov gaped at her. "You revealed magic to goddamn spies!"

"I suppose I did," Jessamine mused. "And I doubt all of them were in the know… Nevertheless, my breach seems to pale in comparison to what would happen if the magical world were to find out that S.H.I.E.L.D not only already _knew_ about magic, but has been cooperating with top government and ICW officials to suppress the existence of magic. No?" Dolohov stared. "Oh dear. Clearly, you weren't qualified enough to know."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Jessamine probed towards Sokolov. She was making her way back in, as slowly as possible it seemed, with Dennis beside her. Buying time? Anxiety, fear and trepidation. Also a tinge of anticipation. The little bitch _had_ contacted MACUSA after all. "Ask your President, why don't you? I'm afraid I must go collect my friend. It seems Sokolov does, miraculously, have some spine left in her." Her eyes flicked down to Jenkins. "Unfortunately, I did make a promise."

"No, no—he has a family, a wife, two kids!" Dolohov said, eyes widening. He started towards Jessamine, then froze in place.

"We struck a bargain," she said. "The bargain was broken, thus the agreed upon collateral must be collected." Jenkins trembled in her arms.

" _Collateral_?" Dolohov said in horror. "He's human! He's a good man, a good Auror."

"Kate," Jenkins said frantically. "The children too—tell them I love them, more than anything—please, Rughar, _please_ —promise me—"

"This isn't necessary," Dolohov said. "Just go now, take your friend and go! I'll give you time to disappear—this isn't necessary—"

Jessamine drew her knife across in a smooth, vicious motion. Dolohov's mouth hung open, speechless. "Rest," she said, staring down at Jenkins with an implacable chill. Blood spurted out and stained her clothes, sinking wet and hot into her shirt, pooling out onto the floor beneath. He gasped for air through the blood flooding his mouth. The light in his eyes dimmed slowly, his jaws going slack. He gulped for breath, once more, twice more, and he was gone. A tendril of grim satisfaction unfurled in her belly. "Goodbye, Dolohov. I do hope we never meet again—I rather liked you."

"How could you?" he whispered. Had he not still been bound by the spell, he would have lunged for her by now. Hatred and grief burned to intemperate heights in his eyes, slamming into her, accusing and seething.

Jessamine did not reply. She twisted on her heel, Apparating to Dennis and Sokolov. She appeared only long enough to grasp Dennis by the arm and knock Sokolov out of the way. Long enough for Dennis to take in her bloodied appearance and for his expression to change into horror.

Then they were gone again. A moment later, MACUSA Aurors descended upon the house and found Dolohov cradling Jenkins's lifeless body, apologies spilling from his lips.

—

 _Redwater, Mississippi_

Pink swirled in the sink, running coloured streaks in the water as it drained away. Spatters of red stained the porcelain white, wet and dark. Dennis slept in the next room, mostly unhurt. The Aurors had clearly roughened him up a little while he had been in their custody; a few light bruises that danced over his face and ribs, but nothing serious. The telly was on in the living room, volume lowered to a dull murmur. The rooms were otherwise sparsely furnished, with only the bare minimum of supplies.

Jessamine's clothes lay in a bloody heap on the bathroom floor. Those would need to be disposed of; there was no getting the blood out of them, not even with magic. She stepped into the shower, hissing in frustration when she realised there was not even any soap. "Kreacher," she said with a sigh.

There was a loud crack, and a diminutive, shrivelled creature appeared before her. He looked older and frailer than ever, but he stood upright at her summons. Only to squeak when he caught sight of her. Even half-blind, he saw the layers of dried and glistening blood over her body. "Filthy Mistress is hurt!" he exclaimed.

"I'm fine, Kreacher," she said. "Just a scratch. I need the Mississippi safehouse resupplied, however. Do be careful; MACUSA will be watching."

He narrowed a beady look at her. "Filthy Mistress is not taking care of herself," he declared. "Kreacher is wanting to come with filthy Mistress, but filthy Mistress is saying no! Now, see, filthy Mistress is needing good Kreacher's help."

"Yes, darling," she said exasperatedly. "Filthy Mistress is needing Kreacher's help. Do make sure the kitchen is stocked up as well, won't you? Everything in there is either cereal or expired."

With an appropriately scandalised look, Kreacher gave a series of vigorous nodding. "Kreacher is doing as filthy Mistress says. Kreacher is also making sure this house is spotless, oh yes, he is," he muttered before vanishing again. Jessamine ran through the shower, turning on the hot water until her skin burnt pink from it. When she was done, she dried herself off, pleased to notice that two sets of toothbrushes were now laid out by the sink, which had also been polished back to its porcelain white. The simple pleasure faded quickly as she dressed, however, and by the time she went to Dennis's bedside, her grim mood had returned.

Dennis was pale in the sheets, his bare torso a tapestry of burgeoning bruises. His worst injury was magical exhaustion, and it had taken Jessamine many potions and spells to get him to a stable sleep. His breath laboured in his chest. Blonde hair clung to his sweaty forehead as the fever worked through him. He looked so terribly thin, and Jessamine wondered suddenly if she had been overworking him. She had not paid him much attention in the recent months, and she had not even noticed that he'd lost weight and sleep. "I'm sorry," she said with a sigh, brushing his hair back. Dennis stirred, mumbling incoherently. Then he fell back into his slumber. Jessamine set a monitoring charm around his bed to let her know when he woke, and left the room. She sat herself before the telly, yet though her eyes stared at the images flickering on the screen, her mind was far away.

She needed a new disguise, that was for certain. And she would be more careful this time—it irked her beyond belief that S.H.I.E.L.D and MACUSA had caught onto her within a year. But now that she knew S.H.I.E.L.D was watching, and that they were working with MACUSA, she would be more difficult to find. But where would she go next? She needed to remain in America. That much Death had made obvious. She'd have to steer clear of Stark, though. That one was too smart for his own good. But there were others—she remembered Death had said that Stark was only one of the first to come to the board. Her hands twitched for her deck of tarot cards—they would guide her. Then she remembered that her favourite deck had been among the wreckage of the house. She scowled. It reminded her how much sensitive information they had in the library. And how many of her quite dangerous and _one-of-a-kind_ relics that she'd painstakingly acquired over the years MACUSA were probably studying right now.

Jessamine conjured herself a rare glass of Firewhiskey. "Bloody nightmare," she muttered irritably. She put her thoughts on her next destination on hold. There were still a few loose ends to tie up in L.A. She had letters to write, a sick employee to take care of and possessions to reacquire. Not to mention Pansy to deal with when she caught wind of it and figured out where Jessamine was.

And rats to hunt.

—

 _Malibu, L.A._

Phil's phone rang at a really inconvenient time. Specifically, while he was being chased down by a ten foot tall metal machine, flinging its arms around with raw force and brutality. He ignored the ringing, and fired several shots in quick succession at the machine's back, but it was no good. He heard Potts shriek over the roar of tearing metal and sizzle of electricity from snapped wires.

"Check on the rest. I'll go after Stane," Phil said to his only remaining agent. He had a sick feeling in his gut that told him it was highly likely at least one of his men were dead. He pushed it aside and compartmentalised. When his phone rang again, he picked it up with a huff. "This had better be important."

"Fury needs you to come to headquarters now." It was Maria Hill on the other line, her voice severe and clipped.

"I'm busy," he said, sprinting after the trail of destruction Stane had left.

"She escaped," Maria said flatly. "They've got three dead and one really pissed off Minister who's demanding to know everything we know about her. You know her best. We need to find out where she is."

Phil arrived outside the building, just in time to see Stark crash into Stane and hear the ring of gunfire screeching against metal. "Shit," he said.

"Yeah."

"No, I meant… Look, Maria, I have a situation going down in Malibu right now. And honestly, I'm not sure if I'm going to be much help. It's going to have to wait."

Maria sighed resignedly. "I can stall. Do you need backup?"

Phil distantly heard the sound of tires screeching, cars honking and a siren of screams. "Yes."

"On it," she said, and hung up. That was something he liked about Maria Hill—she was the most efficient and unruffled person he'd ever known.

"Miss Potts," he said, running up to her. She looked like she was in the midst of hyperventilating. Her phone was grasped so tightly in her hands he was surprised it didn't snap in half, and her eyes were wide with fright and worry. "Miss Potts, please, stay here. You've done great, now I need you to stay here where it's safe."

"Tony and Obadiah are—they're…"

"Just stay here, Miss Potts. I've got backup on the way. We'll handle them."

"Okay," she said faintly. "Okay. Oh my God, there's going to be press. Oh, I need to—I need to call PR. But not now. No. Not now." Then she shook her head. "I'm okay. Oh shit. Yeah, I'm okay. Thank you, Agent Coulson."

"You're okay," Phil echoed soothingly. She nodded again and he flashed her a reassuring smile before jogging off toward the freeway. Stark would have to handle Stane. According to S.H.I.E.L.D's latest information, Stark would be up for it. Phil put himself in charge of evacuating civilians. He calmly directed them off the freeway toward relative safety, occasionally ducking when a car sailed over his head, thrown by Stane.

"Careful now," he said to one screaming woman who had accidentally slipped and snapped the heel of her shoe off. "The roads are wet. Up you go, off the freeway." She picked herself up and sprinted off again, still screaming. Idly Phil wondered what that was like. To look at a scene of chaos and only think of fleeing and not, _oh, the paperwork._

"For thirty years I held you up," roared Stane from a distance. Phil paused, inclining his head for a better look. The larger metal suit lifted Stark in his sleek, red-gold armour over his head. Then Stane smashed him into the ground with a resounding boom. Phil winced. "I built this company from _nothing_!"

Phil reached for his pistol to help, then cursed when he realised his clip was empty.

"And nothing is going to stand in my way," Stane said grandly, and proceeded to fling Stark into a bus, practically denting it into two halves. Phil's radio crackled to life. A tinny voice spoke. "Sir, we've got two units coming in. Where do you want us?"

"One unit to—" He paused, watching as Stane sent a rocket pummeling into the bus and a massive, blinding bloom of heat and fire roared in the air. A moment later, Stark reappeared, his suit scratched singed and worse for wear, but undoubtedly intact and inside, the man was alive and conscious. Phil loosed a small sigh of relief. "One unit to the Stark factory. Secure the area. Get the cleanup crew to my location, and be ready for a big mess."

"Yes, sir."

He looked around. Blazing cars had been flipped over and debris coated in ash lay scattered across the roads. There were people in the distance, taking pictures of the fight. Then Stane and Stark took to the air, shooting up higher and higher.

Phil sighed. _The paperwork_ , he thought mournfully.


End file.
